


A Blunt Observation

by foryouandbits



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Drug Dealing, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mild Smut, Minor Character Death, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-16 22:34:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 42,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4642572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foryouandbits/pseuds/foryouandbits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes and John Watson meet on the job at Venture, a biomedical engineering company. John, who has been married to Mary for two years, is in a complicated albeit requited relationship with Sherlock. Sherlock gets involved in a case that requires secrecy and international travel, and while Sherlock and John unravel a network of drug smugglers, they also have to face the hardship of their love for each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Office work is frightfully dull.

John Watson knew this when he was approached by his old friend from uni, Mike Stamford, about a position that had recently opened at Venture Biomedical Engineering. Mike had always been a good bloke so John considered the option and now, six months later, found himself staring at the blank wall next to his cubicle and wondering if he'd be stuck in this job forever. A year ago he'd been in battle in Afghanistan; now all he had in front of him was the cream colored wall outside his manager's office, the gray panels of his cubicle littered with a calendar, a handful of pictures of he and his wife Mary, and the book he was currently reading, handed to him that morning by his friend Sherlock Holmes.  


"You'll like this one," said Sherlock in his low, silky voice when John set a paper cup of tea on Sherlock's desk. John picked up the copy of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ by Oscar Wilde.  


"Isn't this a movie?" John asked.  


"The book is better," said Sherlock. John looked down at Sherlock, who must have realized that John was staring, and finally parted eyes with his computer screen. Sherlock's eyes were icy blue today, probably due to the navy color of his suit, and when he looked up at John he tilted his face upward so John had a perfect view of his pronounced cheekbones and chiseled jawline. John's breath caught in his chest at the sight – while he visited Sherlock multiple times a day to refresh his tea and occasionally force him to take a lunch, Sherlock rarely looked at him so directly. John wondered briefly if this change in demeanor had anything to do with the events of the past weekend, but knew better than to let his mind wander. It was Monday morning; time to restart and refocus.  


"Well," said John, and he tucked the book under his arm for safe transport back to his desk, "do you have anything new for me today?"  


"Tomorrow," said Sherlock, and he returned his eyes and his abnormally long, thin fingers to his keyboard. "It's down in prototyping but Molly confirmed she'd be able to finish the design by end of day." A smile crept its way onto the corner of John's mouth at the thought of what Sherlock did to ensure Molly would finish his prototype by end of day – he was not one to compliment freely, but knew when a positive mention of hairstyle or clothing would result in getting his way.  


Sherlock fell into a silence that usually meant he'd forgotten John was there and had gotten himself sucked back into his work. His lips, which had edged upward in amusement, now slacked back to their usual thin line. John tried not to think of Sherlock's lips as he rounded the wall that separated the independent engineers from the pharmaceutical department. There were four independent engineers at Venture and all four of them hated everyone, especially each other. John always ignored the other three when he visited Sherlock, and they in turn ignored him, as long as he didn't make too much noise or spend too much time lurking in their private space.  


The pharmaceutical department, on the contrary, was very loud and collaborative. Almost all of them removed the upper half of their gray cubicle panels so they could see each other and the surrounding hallways, which meant they all noticed John as he passed. John smiled a tight-lipped smile back at them as they waved, but did pause at the corner desk where Sarah Sawyer sat.  


"Good morning, John," she said with a bright smile that crinkled her nose in all of the right places, accentuating the freckled bridge of her face. John smiled back at her, not the tight-lipped, polite grin he forced himself to present to the others, but a genuine response to her. He placed his free hand on her cube's highest panel, roughly at the height of his waist. "How was your weekend?"  


Sarah did not need to know the details of his weekend, so he replied with a cursory, "Good. And yours?" She simply shrugged and nodded.  


"Can't complain. How's Mary?"  


"She's great," said John.  


"What have you got there?" Sarah gestured at the book pressed between his arm and chest. He glanced down at it.  


"Just a book Sherlock thinks I should read. He says it's good and you know him – he's never wrong." Sarah continued to smile at him and he wondered if she would comment on it again; of all the people he knew at Venture, which were a fair few, Sarah was the only one who seemed to pick up on the odd connection between Sherlock and John. The rest of the company were fine with seeing them as friends, because they were, but Sarah's constant ribbing and side-eyed glances suggested she knew more than he liked.  


"Another one?" she asked. "Didn't he just give you a book last week?"  


"Yes, and I finished it," said John. "What time is it?" Sarah looked at the time on her computer.  


"It's eight twenty-five."  


"I've got to run. See you later, Sarah," said John. He tipped his mug of tea in her direction and turned down the hallway to his desk. He and Sarah sat only four cubes and an aisle away from each other, but he had his walls up so she could not see that he did not in fact need to run, but instead just wanted to get away from her. Sarah was very nice normally, very attractive in fact, but this was not the morning to make jokes that normal mates did not spend this much time together, did not always take the same days off, did not bring each other tea every single morning.  


John set his tea and his book on his desk. Sherlock had placed a marker inside the book, one of three he owned, all of them steel gray with a window for marking specific paragraphs and capable of slicing off a finger. It appeared as though the marker was placed at random, but it had been six months now, and John knew better. He opened the book to the marked page and scanned the text until he found it:  


_A man who is master of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a pleasure. I don't want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to use them, to enjoy them, and to dominate them._  


John took in a deep breath as he stared at the words, and then he placed his hands over his face and tried to collect himself in the limited privacy of his three walls.  


***

  


"I'm in love with you, you know that?" John had said to Sherlock while they lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling together, their breaths finally calming down from the exhilarating activity that usually followed the successful completion of a case. This case, this time, had taken half of Friday, all of Saturday, and the majority of Sunday to solve. When John tackled a man in front of a bakery and Sherlock hit him with a bag of flour, they stared at each other through the resulting snowy mist and did not break contact until they were back in Sherlock's flat with their clothes off, rutting wildly against each other on Sherlock's bed.  


Sherlock, who had settled into some kind of post-coital thinkathon, uninterrupted by John's rhythmic caressing through his messy dark brown curls, opened his eyes and looked up at John. He did not respond, and John did not expect him to, but the moment felt right and John had never said it before. It had been six months since they met, five months since their first case, and four months since the first time they fell into bed together. John continued to run his fingers through those curls, focusing now on the ringlets that surrounded Sherlock's face. John carefully separated the hair from Sherlock's forehead, brushed them out of the way so he could look down at his lover and appreciate what he had lying with him. Sherlock would fall silent frequently in these situations due to a number of reasons – this case, in particular, required enough attention that Sherlock had not eaten or slept since Friday – and John relished in the ability to be able to touch him this way. It was intimate, precious, and incredibly rare.  


"Dinner?" Sherlock suggested after four minutes of silence. John nodded and let go; Sherlock raised his head from John's lap and was out the door in a second. Once alone, John brought his hand to his forehead and wondered if he'd made a mistake. Silence was normally customary during these lazy times and endearments were never exchanged. Not in the bedroom. There was no place for it here.  


After dinner John returned home to Mary, who smiled happily at him when he entered the kitchen, her short blonde hair slicked back away from her face, her clothes dusted with flour but not for the same reasons his were – she had been cleaning up what looked like dinner, the kind of dinner she knew he didn't like and she reserved for these days when he would eat with Sherlock. "That was a long one, wasn't it?" she asked when he approached her. He kissed her dutifully and she tasted like some kind of meat pie, probably steak and kidney. He was happy Sherlock fed him curry.  


"Not too long, but it got intense at the end there," said John. "You got my text, then? About dinner?"  


"I've been itching to make this for ages," she said and placed a final pan onto the rack to dry. "It was perfect timing. What was it this time?"  


"A robber targeting bakeries. Sherlock knew he was going to be at this one because they have lemon cake specials on Sundays. Apparently they triple their business, so come five o'clock they're set to close and the robber's set to pounce and collect the day's deposit. Kind of brilliant, actually."  


"That explains the flour, then," said Mary with a nod to the white patches all over John's dark jeans and green jumper. "Take it off and I'll do a load of wash tonight."  


John placed his clothes in the hamper in the bedroom but tossed in a pair of clean pants with them. After he turned on the shower, he glanced over toward the kitchen where he could hear Mary loading the dishwasher. He stripped off his ruined pants and tucked them far back into the cabinet on his side of the sink, where Mary never bothered to look because she never needed anything there. There they would stay until he could manage his own load of laundry.  


He straightened up and looked at himself in the mirror. Sherlock had run him ragged this weekend, and not just on the case. He could see it all over his face, in the bags under his dark blue eyes, in the lines on his forehead, and wondered how Mary continued to be so pleasant after all this time. Sherlock was good for him, she said. Sherlock gave him the spark he used to have, the spark she fell in love with when they first met two years ago. Sherlock made him forget about his shoulder and the tremor in his hand.  


John's eyes drifted down to the star-shaped scar in his left shoulder. His fingers touched it lightly as he tried to remember what it had looked like before the wound, but found that he could not. Someone had ripped a hole through him and now he was stuck with it, stuck with this achy mess and civilian life, and a wife who promised him that he was not dull at all.  


He was dull and her promises were empty.  


Sherlock, though, never promised him anything, and the weekend they spent together had been the best weekend of his life.


	2. Chapter 2

It was Wednesday, two days after Molly said she'd have Sherlock's prototype completed, and when he entered the lab on the fifth floor of the Venture building, he knew immediately by the flush of blood to her cheeks that she did not have a completed product for him. She pointedly looked at her computer screen while he approached and cast short, furtive glances back up to ensure that he was still there to see her. When he stopped in front of her computer expectantly, she was red from her ears to her nose.

"Good morning, Sherlock," she said in her small, guilty voice.

"Is it ready yet?" Sherlock asked.

"Well…"

Sherlock looked at her again, searching for a detail that might aid him in the attempt to get this prototype completed faster. Her normally mousy brown hair was down on her shoulders today instead of pulled back tightly. His eyes flickered across the room and noticed a new engineer at the printer. Molly must be trying to impress him. When she pushed her hair behind her ear he saw her emerald earrings. Definitely trying to impress him. She'd applied lipstick that morning but it had rubbed off on her coffee mug. Flattery was not going to work then; he needed another approach if her attraction to him was diverted by the appearance of another male in her life.

His eyes darted again to the man at the printer. He was single but would not be the least interested in Molly due to the color of her hair and the normally lumbering gait; his familiarity with the lab despite having only been a part of the company for three days suggested he'd been in a similar one before, and the only other similar lab nearby was Blomquist Delevan, Venture's biggest rival in London until recently when the company caved. Probability suggested that the new engineer came from Blomquist Delevan, and their salaries paid significantly higher than the starting engineer salary at Venture (thus one of the many reasons for their closure). Someone with that amount of money and that much experience with mechanical engineering was either a socially inept self-named brainiac (and they never were quite the brainiac, at least not when in the same room as Sherlock) or a pompous playboy, and judging by this man's posture and overall good looks, the latter was the only reasonable deduction. Pompous playboys did not bother themselves with the Molly Hoopers of the world unless they needed a favor, but that also suggested that this man may be able to string Molly along until she was of no more use to him.

"What's his name?" Sherlock asked, putting on his air of genuine interest that took so much effort to maintain.

"Breckin," said Molly.

Sherlock did not allow himself any outward sign of judgment; definitely a pompous playboy.

"He's looked at you twice since I've been here," lied Sherlock.

Molly blushed more furiously and began to comb her fingers through her hair, but she didn't respond to him. "Now," he continued, "about that prototype."

"It's almost done," said Molly quickly. "I have the pieces printed and most of them assembled. I can get it to you by two o'clock and then you can bring John down to show him." Sherlock nodded once and left. As he turned his back to her she returned to work and he dropped his pleasant expression just as quickly as he had employed it.

After a ping from Molly that she was finished, Sherlock returned to the lab at two o'clock with John at his side. Molly's hair was now back in a ponytail (it looked like the new engineer was no longer present) when they approached her work bench. She looked between the two of them but did not pink this time.

"I wasn't able to fully test it yet," she said, "but it works. I know it works."

"Did you follow my instructions?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," said Molly.

"Then it works. John, go ahead."

Sherlock watched as John studied the small device that sat on Molly's bench. John picked it up, his face in deep concentration. It was obvious right away that John did not understand what he was holding or its use, but Sherlock waited for him to come to a conclusion. Sherlock waited for two minutes, four times as long as he would have waited for anyone else.

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked. John looked over at Sherlock and their eyes connected. Their eyes had not yet connected that day and Sherlock allowed himself to stare back at John for as long as John needed to continue the conversation. It felt longer than two minutes.

"I think it looks like something you'd use in Star Trek," said John. He began to hover the device over Sherlock's face and torso like a metal detector at the airport. Molly giggled and Sherlock remembered that she had not left.

"You're right, John," said Molly. John lowered the device and turned to Molly.

"What do you mean I'm right? Sherlock, what is this?"

"It's a portable x-ray," said Sherlock. "It feeds the image to the computer for printing and analysis but emits such a low level of radiation that it's no more harmful than using a mobile." John laughed at this but Sherlock felt his brows knit together in confusion. "What?"

"Are you serious right now?" John asked. "Did you seriously just invent a portable x-ray?"

"Of course I did," said Sherlock. "It's what I do." Molly took the device from John and erroneously demonstrated how to use it by running the camera up her arm. Sherlock took the device from her and scanned a spot on his own arm as well, illustrating how to handle it properly. This was an x-ray device, not a video camera, and it only took photographs. Molly blushed at this but showed John the inside of Sherlock's forearm on her computer.

"Huh," said John and he looked up at Sherlock from the screen. "It does work. I can't say that I believe it's safe, though. We'll have to run trials." Sherlock's lips pursed together as they did whenever he was annoyed. "Bureaucracy, Sherlock. We can't just mass produce these and put them in every hospital in the country because you say it's safe."

"It is safe, John."

"It's still a fantastic project, Sherlock," said John, whose face beamed as he said it. "Give it time for red tape and then you'll have your name on something that can revolutionize the way that we handle this type of scan. Give this to a nurse and you can see in a second if a kid's arm is broken or just sprained. It's absolutely brilliant."

John set the device on Molly's bench and stepped forward to Sherlock. He reached out with one arm for what looked like an embrace but paused, thought the better of it, and then clapped Sherlock once on the shoulder. As soon as John's hand connected with Sherlock's body, John's eyes flickered to Molly, who had picked up the device and took a picture of her hand with it.

"I'll start the process right away," said John. "I'll need more details, though, for the presentation. Or you could just come to the presentation like all the other engineers."

"Boring," said Sherlock. Both he and John left the lab and returned to the lift. Sherlock noticed John stretching out his left hand – the one that he used to touch Sherlock – as if it began to tremble like it did when he and John first met. Sherlock looked at it and John noticed, so he tucked his arms behind his back and waited for the lift in parade rest.

John spoke again when they entered the lift.

"It really is brilliant, you know."

"You've said that," said Sherlock.

"How could you have possibly come up with something like that? You're a graduate chemist and a detective in your spare time. How can you structurally design something like that without an engineering degree?"

"One does not need a degree to prove one is capable of quality work."

"No, I suppose not," said John, but he shook his head as if he did not believe the words that left his lips. "How did you even end up here?" The doors opened again and they rounded the corner to the obnoxiously loud pharmaceutical team. They were gathered around a whiteboard for their daily 2:30 huddle that accomplished nothing for the team but proved to be an ongoing distraction for everyone else on the floor.

"I had business to do here," said Sherlock as they passed the pharmaceutical team and rounded the corner to Sherlock's desk. The other three independent engineers were not present so John sat down in one of their chairs next to Sherlock.

"Do you have a case on?" John asked.

Sherlock had to look at John to ensure that he was asking the question as a new subject in conversation rather than a response. Sherlock confirmed this from the way John swiveled back and forth in Dimmock's chair. Dimmock would not be happy when he returned and Sherlock was happy for that.

"Not tonight," replied Sherlock. "Wednesdays are incredibly boring for murder."

"What about a good robbery, or a missing person? They can happen any day of the week." Sherlock sneered at the idea of just a missing person case. Murder was the best thing that could happen on a Wednesday, but Sherlock's cases usually encompassed the weekend or, if he were incredibly lucky, on a Monday so that he had an excuse to not come in to work. "I'm going to the pub tonight with Lestrade. Do you want to come along?" Sherlock did not even bother to respond to the invitation. "Oh come on, we'll spend some time together and chat about nonsense. It'll be fun."

"Spending time and chatting is not the most productive use of my time."

"Even if it would be considered quality bonding time with your brother-in-law?"

"Especially if it were to be considered quality bonding time with my brother-in-law. Lestrade was one of the few acceptable employees at this company but he decided to tarnish his good name by associating it with my brother's. I see him as much as I should for someone who is family by law."

"Greg's a good guy, Sherlock, and he actually likes you. Anyone who can say they like you should be awarded the Victoria Cross."

"Dimmock's coming," said Sherlock. John hastily returned the chair to the next desk just moments before the man rounded the corner and gave John a scowl for just being present in the secluded row of cubicles. John looked back at Sherlock.

"Well I'll be going regardless if you want to accompany me. Text me if you get a case on." Sherlock did not reply before John left. Sherlock listened to his footsteps outside the cubicle wall and around the corner back to his desk before he opened his email and began scanning correspondence that he missed during the interlude with the portable x-ray scanner that would never make it out of clinical trials.

Most of the email was pointless. Only one proved any sort of merit:

**Finch, Renee**  
**Tomorrow**

Additional support needed from Aurillac tomorrow. Please contact O for headcount and ETA.

 

Sherlock smiled. He pulled out his mobile and, although John was approximately a hundred meters away, sent him a text.

_When was the last time you went to France? SH_


	3. Chapter 3

John knew something was wrong when he caught Sherlock chatting up the receptionist on his way out the door. John also knew it was none of his business, that Mary would be at home when he arrived and that they would have dinner, say they loved each other, and possibly shag before the night was through. However, the sight of Sherlock in his blue scarf and Belstaff – a sight that always brought the heat to John's cheeks – leaning over the front desk and laughing with Elise Beauchamp, a busty twenty-two year old blonde, made John's breath hitch in his throat. The worst part of it, however, was how _into it_ Elise looked. She twirled her long hair in her fingers and looked back up at Sherlock through her false eyelashes, a smile plastered on her red lips. Elise had not worked at Venture long, not much longer than John, and John had envisioned what was underneath her sweater a few times already. She looked at Sherlock as if she was wondering the same illicit thoughts and it tore a hole through John's already brittle willpower. He knew he was supposed to meet Greg for a pint and was already running late, but this required his immediate attention.

"Sherlock," called John. Sherlock's head snapped over but the warmth did not leave his eyes, the cheek did not slide away from his smile.

"I'll walk out with you, John," called Sherlock and then he returned his attention to Elise, who beamed as he did. "See you tomorrow, then."

"Of course," said Elise. "Have a good night, Sherlock."

"And you as well, love."

John's heart beat wildly in his chest at the endearment and he wondered if he looked as angry as he felt. Sherlock approached John with his expression unchanged, still a soft, pleased sort of look that one usually kept after a thrilling conversation with an exciting person. Usually if Sherlock put on an act, the expression would drop immediately once the subject was out of sight. John opened the door and shivered perhaps because the cold hit him. Once outside John felt he had enough distance from the receptionist to speak.

"What the hell was that?" John asked.

"What was what? Elise was kind enough to let me use her mobile charger today." John stared at Sherlock but Sherlock didn't elaborate further. He walked with John all the way to the tube; the pub was a block farther. Once there, all of the delightful expression erased itself from Sherlock's face and John felt relief spread through him. "I cleared your schedule. We need to leave early if we're going to get there on time."

"Why are we going to France tomorrow?"

"I'll explain on the way. Bring your gun."

"How the hell am I supposed to travel internationally with a gun?" John asked but the question was moot; Sherlock had already entered the station and was out of earshot. Once alone, John realized just how incredibly cold it was and stuffed his hands into his pockets before he darted off toward the pub.

Greg was already at a table with a pint in front of him when John arrived. John nodded to his friend and sat on the high stool. They frequented this pub due to its proximity to the office and the tube, but John had never liked it here simply because all of the seating consisted of stools. John was not a tall man and the way his feet dangled off the stool constantly reminded him of that. Greg, however, was a decent height for a man and thus did not feel self-conscious on a stool. John glanced at the glass in front of Greg and noticed it was nearly empty already. John was late but not very late and knew immediately how this conversation was going to transpire.

"Bad day, mate?" John asked. Greg smiled a humorless smile. "What's it this time, then? Donovan and Anderson kill each other over who gets to use the centrifuge?"

"Nah, they're doing all right," said Greg, "which probably means they're shagging again. I'm just going to count my blessings that I don't have to listen to them bicker back and forth all day."

"Is that even permitted? They're in the same department. They work together." Greg just stared at John as he took another large gulp of beer. John's heart sunk into his stomach but it was to be expected; Mycroft knew what had occurred within seconds of John's first encounter with Sherlock and thus Greg probably knew within hours. "That's different."

"What, because you're both men? That's literally the only difference."

"Seriously? I'm Anderson in this scenario?" Greg tipped his glass to John before he drained it and set it on the table. John was about to comment; it was Wednesday, not the weekend, and they hadn't eaten yet, but before he could figure out how best to phrase the words, Greg was out of his seat and at the bar. When Greg returned he set a glass in front of John as well.

"Cheers," said Greg.

"Cheers."

They clinked glasses together and John let his drink settle in his stomach before he approached the subject again. Greg had invited John to the pub at lunchtime and John assumed it was not just to chat about football, although the game was on throughout the bar and Greg stared at it with distant brown eyes as he drank his second pint at an accelerated pace.

"So what's going on, Greg?" John asked. "It's a Wednesday and you're nearly two pints in." Greg's eyes drifted away from the screen in front of the table and over to John, and the way his hands fell together, the fingers on his right hand twisting the silver band on his fourth finger, gave John all the answer he needed. "Explain."

"It's not worth getting into," said Greg and although his eyes drifted away again, his fingers did not stop twisting his ring. John contemplated pushing the subject further but twice was enough of a nudge.

"We're going to France tomorrow," said John instead and Greg's entire demeanor changed with the subject of the conversation. His fingers stopped fidgeting and he sat back in his chair to give John more attention.

"Oh yeah? Sherlock's got a case on then?"

"Yeah."

"What's this one about?"

"I have no idea. I rarely have an idea. He found a way to get us to skive off tomorrow so we're taking the train in the morning." Greg's lips formed a tight, too familiar grin. "You're shitting me. Do not tell me Mycroft has pull at Venture."

"Mycroft has pull everywhere," said Greg. "Venture is no exception. How do you think I met him?"

"I thought Sherlock introduced you."

"We've been married for a year. Sherlock hasn't been with the company ten months yet." John's brows furrowed together in confusion.

"Ten months? That makes no sense. I've been there six."

"And Sherlock's been there ten," said Greg.

"I assumed he'd been there for years. He's an independent engineer. It takes people ages to become an independent engineer. They all start in pharmaceuticals or forensics –"

"He was never in my department. He started as an independent and I am positive Mycroft put him there. I don't know why he's there and how he hasn't gotten incessantly bored yet, but I suppose if he's got unlimited lab access and no one to enforce rules, he could be happy for a while." John's hand went to his face and began to stroke at the stubble of his beard. It made absolute sense that Mycroft was involved in Sherlock's placement at Venture given how easily Sherlock was able to disappear for days with no repercussions, but if Mycroft was involved it meant the company had stock in something much bigger than just engineering.

"What do you think Mycroft has to do with it?" John asked. Greg shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't know. He doesn't discuss work at home."

"Makes sense if he has to deal with it all day long."

"He has to deal with it constantly," said Greg and John shut his mouth to allow Greg to vent it out, knowing that he'd unintentionally opened the floodgates. "I know he's an important person. I know he has a lot of responsibility. I just would prefer it if I didn't have to play second fiddle to the work. It could be two o'clock in the morning while we're on holiday. If his phone rings, he answers."

"He's essentially running the country, Greg. He can't shut it off."

"He can," said Greg. Greg's hands had been placed haphazardly in his salt and pepper hair but they returned to his fidget with his ring again. "He absolutely can shut it off. He's not the entire government. He's important, yes, but he's not the only person who can do the job. If it's the middle of the night or while we're trying to be – while we're together, it should be our time. I should be able to have time where it's just us. I didn't marry the entire country."

John gripped his pint in his hand. He had known Greg as long as he'd known Sherlock and in those six months he and Greg had formed a lasting friendship, but every time Greg alluded to physical intimacy with Mycroft Holmes, John had to bite his lip and think about everything else imaginable to block the mental image from entering his mind. Perhaps it had something to do with John's attraction to Sherlock, or perhaps to his platonic friendship with Greg, but it made him feel uncomfortable.

"Did you tell Mycroft this?" John asked.

"I try to. It's hard to get a word in around him sometimes." Greg took another long drink before he changed the subject to football, and John felt relieved that the sharing of feelings was over.

***

The first train for Paris left at seven o'clock and John assumed when Sherlock said to meet him at six o'clock at Baker Street they would be boarding that train. However when John arrived at Sherlock's flat the man stood in front of a familiar black car, his back so straight it appeared someone had shoved a pole up his arse. Sherlock opened the door for him.

"Where are we going?" John asked once in the privacy of the car; Mycroft's drivers always placed a barrier between them as if they could not be trusted with the types of conversations that occurred in the back seat.

"Aurillac," said Sherlock.

"Aurillac? Where is that?"

"It's part of Auvergne. Seriously, John, do you not know your French geography?" Sherlock asked.

"Says the man who can't even name the planets," replied John. "All right, fill me in. Why are we going to Aurillac and why is it required to have a gun?"

"One must always be prepared," said Sherlock as he adjusted his black leather gloves over his dexterous hands, and John became suddenly aware of their proximity and how very alone they were in the back of this car. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and Sherlock shot him a disdainful look. "There is much work to be done, John. I need you to focus."

"I am focused," said John.

"Aurillac has a major agricultural industry and while it is mostly centered around its production of meat and cheese, it does also grow some crops. There is a large purchase of crops being made today at noon and we need to ensure we are there when it occurs."

"Crops?" John asked. "Something tells me we're not talking barley here."

"No, we are not, John," said Sherlock. "I've been reliably informed that this exchange is happening and, assuming we are able to make it in time, we will have the necessary evidence to shut down at the very least this supplier. There may be others – there are probably others – but this one, as I've learned, is the largest."

"And who are they supplying?" John asked. Sherlock did not answer. "So are we taking the train?"

"No," replied Sherlock, and when the car stopped John exited to a tarmac and a small plane. No one checked him or his waistband before he entered, Sherlock directly behind. When John looked upon the cabin he stifled any sort of reaction to the extravagance before him – the plane could seat six, but when the cabin door shut only he and Sherlock were aboard. There presumably was a captain in the cockpit but there was no communication as the plane began to taxi away, and Sherlock didn't even sit until the acceleration forced him into a chair.

"You should put your seat belt on," said John when the acceleration steadied.

"I was assured a smooth flight," replied Sherlock.

John watched him. Sherlock stared out the window until they broke the cloud line and the sunshine barreled through the cabin, illuminating the natural highlights in his soft brown hair. They might be en route to what sounded like a farm town, but Sherlock wore a black suit under his coat, John's favorite purple shirt, and shoes that shined. He would look incredibly conspicuous staking out a purchase of any kind of crop, but in that moment John was thankful the man dressed well.


	4. Chapter 4

Aurillac was much warmer than London. John left his jacket and jumper on the plane and even Sherlock parted with his coat. John's white undershirt, jeans, and walking boots allowed him to blend in with the locals, but Sherlock kept his blazer on and walked to the rental car counter completely out of place. John waited while Sherlock arranged for a vehicle for the two of them, only catching every few words of French. Sherlock spoke perfect French. It made sense.

"Do you think we'll have time to shop before we go home?" John asked, nodding to what appeared to be the only store in the airport; the Aurillac airport only flew private planes and commuters to Paris, so traffic was incredibly low. The store displayed an array of local cheeses and John could devour any cheese placed in front of him.

"I sincerely doubt you'll want to stop for cheese on the way back to the plane," said Sherlock, and John realized he was probably right. The fact that Sherlock was probably right caused John to shift awkwardly again. Sherlock looked at him but did not comment. He said goodbye to the rental agent and escorted John to their rental car, which turned out to be a rental truck. When Sherlock climbed into the vehicle behind the wheel, John could not help the smirk that sneaked onto his lips.

"Are you sure you can handle this thing?" John asked.

"I am perfectly capable of international espionage via a large truck and a few dirt roads, John." John buckled himself in regardless and watched Sherlock the entire voyage to wherever this deal would occur. Sherlock had no doubt studied the entirety of Aurillac's road systems because he did not need any sort of navigational help through the many turns. "I suppose you're not opposed to walking a bit."

"Are you? You're the one in a suit."

"I'm completely comfortable," said Sherlock. He parked the truck on a quiet dirt road at the base of a hill and opened their only luggage – a small rucksack – to retrieve a pair of binoculars. "Allons-y, Jean," he said.

John began to sweat as they followed the road around the hill. Once to the other side the truck was completely out of sight. Sherlock led John to the apex of a neighboring hill, thankfully in the shade of many trees, and then laid face-down on the grass with no regard to the condition of his expensive suit. Sherlock placed the binoculars to his eyes in the direction of a farmhouse and barn about half a kilometer away. It was too far a distance to hear conversation, but close enough to make out figures and license plate numbers with Sherlock's binoculars.

"We're a bit early," said Sherlock, "but it's definitely happening today." Sherlock observed several men loading one of two large trucks with wrapped bundles. Despite already knowing their contents, the only discernable feature of the bundles were their green coloring.

"Let me see," said John. Sherlock handed over the binoculars and John followed the men as they continued to load the trucks from the barn. "Is that – is that just weed?"

"Yes," said Sherlock.

"We came to France for weed?"

"We did not come to France for weed," said Sherlock as he took the binoculars out of John's hands. "We came to France to observe one part of a large international drug smuggling ring." Sherlock looked through the binoculars again to search the grounds for additional men when he realized John was shaking beside him. When he looked over, John's attempt to fight his giggles failed and he began to laugh in earnest, his eyes shut so tight his entire forehead wrinkled. His mouth opened wide to accommodate his laughter, showing off his set of straight, white teeth. "John."

"I can't believe you made me wake up at five o'clock in the morning for fucking weed," laughed John. "When you said we were observing a drug exchange I assumed heroin or at least cocaine. No, we just flew in a private jet for three hours to look at a bunch of stoners transport their weed."

"If you refuse to take this seriously I suggest you wait in the truck. The hills echo." John shut his mouth but could not contain his grin. He put up his hand in surrender, but he distracted Sherlock with his silent giggles for ten minutes. "Here we go," said Sherlock as the men closed the back of the first truck. "The exchange is happening over those hills there. They'll take the longer route to avoid town with – yes, John, with their weed – but we can go straight through." Sherlock pointed at a set of hills several kilometers in the distance.

"So if we won't stop for cheese," said John when they reentered their truck, "do you think after this bust or whatever it is that we're doing we could grab some weed? I would love to see you stoned."

"Absolutely not, John," said Sherlock.

"I don't know about you," John continued. "I feel like you could go a number of ways. You either would never shut up or you'd never say a word. Jesus, I could just imagine you high –"

"John," said Sherlock, more sternly, and John laughed again. "John, it would be in your best interest to shut your mouth immediately." John began to rib again when he suddenly shut his mouth and looked at Sherlock. Sherlock only glanced over from behind the wheel.

"No way," said John, but the mirth was gone from his voice. "You? You were an addict?"

"Am an addict," corrected Sherlock with the verbiage Mycroft always used.

"But yours was serious, then? Cocaine or heroin or something worse than just this?"

"Cocaine," said Sherlock tersely.

The atmosphere in the truck tensed significantly as Sherlock peeled through the country roads to ensure their arrival time, even if they were taking the direct route. John stared out the window at the rolling hills and acres and acres of cows in green pastures. When Sherlock finally stopped behind another hill, John turned to him again.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to set you off."

"It's fine," said Sherlock. "You couldn't have known."

John opened his mouth to continue the conversation but Sherlock opened the door and exited the vehicle. John couldn't see to the other side of the hill and didn't risk raising his voice, so he exited just as silently and followed Sherlock's path. They climbed the hill and hid behind the smattering of trees until they found a suitable vantage point.

Sherlock lay on the grass first with his binoculars and John quickly followed suit. The figures were hard to make out from this distance, even though this hill was much closer to the road than their previous surveillance area. Sherlock scanned the occupants of the old truck stopped in the middle of the dirt road in front of him, a small smile reaching his lips when he recognized the passenger.

"John," said Sherlock at a whisper and handed over the binoculars. "Look at the passenger in the truck." John did and saw an older man with white hair and a large belly. If he had a beard he'd resemble Father Christmas.

"Yeah, who is he?" asked John.

"That is Olivier D'Angelis, the reason we are here. Excellent." The sound of a vehicle caused John to look up the road. The first of the two weed trucks was approaching from the west, a heavy cloud of dust trailing in its wake. The driver and D'Angelis exited their truck when it was in sight. The weed truck parked not far away and four men with large guns stepped onto the road. They met in the center and exchanged words that were too distant to hear, then formed a line facing east.

"Is this not the exchange?" asked John.

"No, D'Angelis is the owner of the marijuana farm – he owns almost all of the marijuana farms in the area. He's here to facilitate the exchange."

"Why? If he owns the farms why is he here getting his hands dirty?"

"Look at that truck, John. A truck that size can hold twenty five hundred kilos of marijuana and they're filling two of them to capacity. This is not an everyday exchange between a supplier and his local customers; this is a major drop for an important client. Of course D'Angelis is here." Sherlock took the binoculars back from John; the second truck was just appearing over the hill to the west when another vehicle appeared in the east.

"How much money do you think this equates to?" John asked.

"Four or five million."

"Pounds?" John asked in surprise and Sherlock nodded. "Holy shit!" The car approached and another four men, also heavily armed, exited the vehicle first to shield a fifth man, dressed similar to Sherlock. "Who is that?"

"The buyer."

"Yes, I figured that – but who is he?"

"I don't know," replied Sherlock with an edge to his voice. The buyer was more than likely just a link in the chain between Olivier and the kingpin on the other end, but Sherlock did not recognize him. From his protection and his dress he seemed like an incredibly important link.

"Let me see," said John, and he took back the binoculars. "Okay, we have D'Angelis and his driver, the four from the first truck and what looks like just two from the other – then we have the buyer and his escort of four. That's thirteen, Sherlock. There's just you and me. What's the game plan here?" Sherlock continued to observe without comment. "Sherlock, we have to have a game plan. I have a handgun. Even if I was able to shoot everyone on the first go we're cutting it close. Are we here to stop this or are we here to observe?"

Sherlock did not reply and John began to breathe uneasily as he continued to watch the men approach each other. D'Angelis only approached the buyer when flanked on either side with his guards, but the buyer stepped in front of his without immediate protection. The two men shook hands and D'Angelis gestured back toward the trucks.

Before anyone could move again, Sherlock took off westward across the hill, his rucksack over his shoulder, keeping low so not to be seen by those on the road. John cursed at a loud whisper and followed, his hand immediately reaching into the waistband of his jeans to retrieve his gun. His heart began to beat erratically in his chest as he followed full speed after Sherlock, who'd made it down the hill and practically to the road. This was a horrible idea. They were vastly outnumbered and even if they were able to take a stealthy approach, once the first shot fired everyone would know their position, and John's gun did not have a silencer. Sherlock was more than likely not armed.

"Sherlock!" John whispered when they reached the even plane of the road. Sherlock had finally stopped but stood just out of sight of the men, no more than two meters from the rear truck. John stepped very close to him. "Sherlock, what is the plan? You have to clue me in or this will not end well."

"Stay here and stay out of sight. If we're spotted, start shooting."

Sherlock bolted across the road to the back of the truck. John felt a shout die in his throat but there was no movement from the men conducting the exchange. Sherlock then threw himself to the ground and disappeared underneath the truck. From John's view he could not see what Sherlock was doing, so he kept his eyes on the men still exchanging words in French in front of the first truck. It was easier from this distance to hear what they were saying, but John had been long out of practice in French and only caught a few words. They were discussing price – probably.

Sherlock emerged from under the truck without his rucksack and ran across the road and back to John, but did not stop there. A shout from the front of the truck meant they were spotted, followed closely by the sound of guns arming and aiming. "Run!" said Sherlock as he whipped by. This direction was not necessary, but John followed after Sherlock as quickly as possible, his head swirling back and forth on his shoulder, most importantly to keep eyes on Sherlock, secondly to look for targets behind him.

They were far away from the road when the first man appeared, his machine gun cocked. John turned fully to face him and fired; it caught the man in the chest and he fell backward to the ground without firing his weapon.

"Keep running, John!" Sherlock yelled, so John did, but just as they made it behind the hill an explosion penetrated John's ears and sent a cloud of black smoke into the air. The hill blocked them from danger but not from the sound, and John's ears began to ring violently. He covered them with his hands and kept running since Sherlock had not stopped, his heart pumping so loud and so fast John was afraid he'd pass out onto the ground.

They did not stop until they reached the top of the second hill. Helicopters were already on the way, much too quickly for a normal response from local police. It would not surprise John if Mycroft had arranged for backup to arrive, but it did make John incredibly angry to know that this was prearranged and the explosion was entirely useless. Sherlock collapsed into a sitting position on top of the hill and pulled out his binoculars to inspect the damage. John collapsed next to him and attempted to catch his breath. Sweat poured down the sides of his face, into his chest, and down his back. Sherlock, although visibly sweaty on his forehead, looked calm and collected in his suit.

"What the hell was that about?" John asked loudly in the assumption that Sherlock's ears rang as loudly as his.

"That," said Sherlock, and he handed over the binoculars, "was a message."

The car carrying the buyer and his guards was gone. There was no dust on the road so they must have taken off through the hills. The first truck lay in pieces on the road, covered in flames. As John watched, the flames spread to the bed of the second truck, thus completely eliminating all of the product. One of the men from the exploded truck lay in its ruin, the other was the man John shot on the hill. The four guards and D'Angelis were on the ground from the explosion, but their bodies stirred. They could easily suffer permanent hearing loss but otherwise did not look harmed. Before they could stand up, however, two helicopters landed on the road and teams of police surrounded them. John took another deep breath and looked over at Sherlock, who smiled at him.

"Ready to go?" asked Sherlock.

"Absolutely," said John and pinned Sherlock to the ground with the kind of force that only adrenaline stirred inside of him. Despite the smoke in the air, the sounds of a violent arrest, and the oncoming local police, John managed to take himself and Sherlock out of their trousers and into his hand, rubbing fiercely together until they spent themselves all over Sherlock's fantastic purple shirt. After their shared release Sherlock laughed and John wished he would say the words back to him, but Sherlock did not, and they returned to London as tense as they left.


	5. Chapter 5

John kissed his wife goodbye on Friday morning when she dropped him off at the tube station. It was not a far walk from their house but she usually would take him there on her way to work. "Will you be home for dinner?" she asked. He nodded. "I suppose he wouldn't have a case so soon after that. Try not to blow up five million quid of marijuana today, all right?"

"Deal," said John. He exited the car and Mary drove off. John turned to enter the station but immediately found himself in front of a very familiar man with a very familiar umbrella. "Dammit, Mycroft, you scared the daylights out of me."

Mycroft had no response to this so instead gestured to a nearby vehicle not unlike the vehicle that escorted Sherlock and John to Heathrow the day prior. The car did not move so at least this would be a short conversation. "You'll be pleased to hear the man you shot yesterday will live."

"Great," said John, although that did not please him at all.

"I'll need your weapon. My people were on the scene, of course, but there may be an inquiry and I'd rather avoid details." Mycroft held out a black case for John to take. It contained the same model as John's current weapon. "I assume you have it on you."

There was no reason for John to carry his weapon with him to work but he did have it on him – it was a common occurrence after the resolution of a case. It made him feel safer. John traded the gun in the case with his recently fired and recently cleaned .45. John checked the safety on the new model before placing it in his waistband.

"How much do you know?" Mycroft asked.

"As usual, nothing," said John.

"It might be easier that way. Try not to get involved, John." John stared at Mycroft – the resemblance between Sherlock and Mycroft was distant at best. They were both tall, posh, and condescending, but apart from that and generics such as hair and eye color, they did not necessarily look like brothers. They were unmistakably brothers, though, and the look upon Mycroft's face reminded John explicitly of Sherlock when forcing a point. John replied the same way to Mycroft that he did to Sherlock:

"It's too late for that, Mycroft," said John. John paused. "How is Greg?"

Mycroft's expression fell to the most human John had ever seen on him.

"Good day, John."

John exited the car and entered the tube. John filled out a third of a crossword puzzle on the way into work and when John arrived he expected to be greeted by the horrible Elise Beauchamp, but instead found the receptionist desk empty. He took the lift upstairs and said good morning to several other employees before receiving a customized greeting from Sarah Sawyer.

"And where have you been, Mr. I'm-Too-Good-For-Thursdays?" asked Sarah when John walked by. John stopped and smiled at her.

"I think you've answered your own question there, Sarah," said John. "I'm just too good for Thursdays. It appears the place didn't fall apart while I was out, so that's something about my actual worth here." Sarah shrugged her shoulders.

"It wasn't too bad. Did you hear about Elise, though?"

"No," said John. "I saw she wasn't in yet."

"She's not going to be in. Disappeared. Left a resignation note on her desk yesterday around lunch and never came back."

"Huh," said John. "What time?"

"Left for lunch around twelve-thirty, I think. Note just said she was done and that was it. I knew she was flighty, that one, but at least have the dignity to stay the rest of the day." John felt his mouth turn downward into an elaborate frown as he began to think about it, and he glanced to the wall in front of him that separated Sherlock from the pharmaceutical team. "He came in a half hour ago, but I think he's down in the lab now."

"Thanks," said John.

"He was also off yesterday, wasn't he?" Sarah asked. John looked over at her and at the knowing look on her face. He didn't like what it suggested.

"I don't know. I had to stay home and take care of a faulty dishwasher. Water all over the kitchen floor." Sarah nodded but did not look convinced. "I should see what he's up to – if it has anything to do with his last design, I'm going to need an update. See you later, Sarah."

"See you later, John," she said with a smile. John dropped off his briefcase at his desk and looked furtively around before he placed his gun into a shallow drawer and covered it with file folders. Sarah watched him as he entered the lift.

Sherlock was indeed in the lab but did not seem to be working on his prototype. John didn't necessarily expect him to; once Sherlock delivered a product it was usually the end of his interest in it. He did not discriminate in his disinterest; even designs that made it to production were completely boring to him. It made it extremely difficult if John were to pitch designs to local hospitals and needed an immediate answer to a question.

"What've you got there?" John asked. Sherlock did not look up from the microscope.

"Soil samples," said Sherlock but did not elaborate further. John decided it would be best not to know.

"Did you hear what happened with your friend Elise?" This question was intentionally provocative and John felt a surging sense of accomplishment when Sherlock leaned back in his chair and looked directly at John.

"My friend?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, the receptionist. You and she seemed a very chummy on Wednesday afternoon." Sherlock crossed his arms.

"What of her?"

"She disappeared yesterday. Took off at lunch and never came back. Perhaps she was heartbroken that you weren't at work."

"Elise Beauchamp is the step-daughter of Olivier D'Angelis," said Sherlock and whatever jealous feelings John had decided to surface in that moment fell completely out of his mind.

"You're joking," said John although Sherlock rarely joked, at least when discussing work.

"Is that why you came down here?" Sherlock asked. "To gossip about the receptionist?"

That was exactly why John was there, to gossip about the receptionist who had so openly flirted with Sherlock on Wednesday. This knowledge completely changed the way that John felt about the interaction he had stumbled upon, but it did not quell the anxiety that John had felt while observing it. John took a step away from Sherlock and his microscope and mirrored Sherlock's body language by crossing his arms across his chest.

"I suppose I did," said John. "I'm going to get tea. Do you want any? Will you be here a while?"

"I'm fine," said Sherlock and he returned his eyes to the microscope. John left without another word.

***

"We should invite Greg and Mycroft over for dinner tomorrow," said Mary while she and John stood in the kitchen preparing dinner. John was peeling potatoes and Mary was trimming chicken. John paused and looked up at her, causing her to laugh at his incredulity. "What? I think it would be nice to see them again. You're out with Greg practically as much as you're out with Sherlock and you know how much I adore him."

"Sherlock?" John asked.

"No, Greg," clarified Mary. "It was just an idea. We don't have to have them over."

"I'm fine with Greg, but…Mycroft…"

"Mycroft is his husband. We can't invite one without the other."

"Sure we can," said John. "I'll finish the potatoes and give him a call. I'm sure he's not busy tomorrow." When John returned his attention to the potatoes Mary did the same.

"How long have they been married?" asked Mary.

"About a year, I think," said John.

"It's nice that you're so close to Greg, what with them being married." John paused his potato peeling operation again; at this rate, he would never be able to finish enough for the two of them.

"What does that mean?" John asked. Mary shrugged her shoulders and threw the fatty trimmings of the chicken into the kitchen bin before she turned to the stove. "Why would them being married bother me?"

"I'm not saying it would bother you," said Mary without turning around, as if having her back to him allowed her the freedom to discuss such a topic. "I'm just saying it's nice, is all, that now you can be close to someone who's like that."

John felt his grip tighten on the peeler in his hand and he had to set the potato down onto the counter before it slipped out of his hands and into the bin. "We're not discussing this, Mary."

"I'm not trying to discuss anything! I'm just saying!"

"I know what you're just saying and I've told you already this is not something –" John took in a deep breath to push the feelings back down inside of him. "I am not discussing it, Mary. Not now. Not ever. I need you to stop asking."

"It would be good for you to get it out," said Mary and she finally turned back to him. He stared directly into her eyes. It was not uncommon for Mary to manipulate feelings out of him, but these specific feelings and these specific memories were not so easily relinquished. "It's been two years, John. It happened, you got hurt, but you're not over it. If you just talk about him then maybe –"

"Mary, no," said John and his voice did not quaver in its volume. She put up her hands and returned to the stove where the chicken crackled in oil and garlic.

That evening John could not fall asleep. Mary, as usual, was out within minutes of them shutting off the light, but he stared at the white ceiling above him and willed his thoughts not to drift away. She slept with her hand on his stomach and he tried not to remember two years ago when that was the way he slept with _him_ in the rare nights they could spend together.

John closed his eyes and that face appeared, that face before it had happened… That face when it was whole and when it looked at John with loyalty and admiration, when he would say words like "When this tour is over I think I will retire and then we don't have to worry about what people will say," and John would reply, "I don’t care what people will say."

However John did care what people would say, and that was why he never spoke of his relationship with James to anyone, not even Mary, not even after she pieced together what had happened. John wondered if Sherlock knew, but the wonder was moot because of course Sherlock knew, and when John exited the bed at three o'clock and took off to Baker Street, Sherlock knew why John was there.

"I don't feel like sleeping," said Sherlock, "but if you need to stay the night go ahead." John looked at Sherlock in his chair with a copy of _Giovanni's Room_ by James Baldwin, and then nodded. He wanted to ask Sherlock to join him, even if Sherlock was just going to read, but it wasn't like that. John climbed into Sherlock's bed and fell asleep there and Sherlock never left his chair.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read the "mild smut" tag and have been waiting patiently for it to appear, here you go :)

Sherlock was staring at the evidence wall when Mrs. Hudson's telltale footfalls sounded on the stairs up to 221B. The evidence wall severely lacked key details so Sherlock had to supplement missing data with trips to his mind palace and the images stored there. The man in the suit, the buyer in the Aurillac deal, was clearly someone important, but Sherlock had spent the better part of the previous two days scanning his records for the man's face. Sherlock had never seen him before.

Where did he fall in all of this? Elise Beauchamp was D'Angelis's link to Venture, and Venture was the middle man between Aurillac and the drugs' final destination. Sherlock had already narrowed down Venture's connections to a prime suspect and possibly one more facilitator, someone on Elise's level to feed information and to take the fall if need be. The prime suspect had strong ties to the final destination, most likely familial in nature. Where did the buyer come in?

Mrs. Hudson set a tea tray on the kitchen table in between Sherlock's microscope and soil samples from the Aurillac hills that Sherlock had collected not long after John spent himself on Sherlock's purple shirt. Sherlock's eyes darted down the hallway to the bedroom door. It was not closed and John was still asleep in Sherlock's bed. While Mrs. Hudson knew John well enough from his assistance on Sherlock's cases over the past half year to not mind his presence in the flat, she also knew John's wife, and Sherlock did not want to have to deal with pointed glances or quiet, passive aggressive comments about indiscretion and fidelity.

"I thought you might like some breakfast," said Mrs. Hudson. She began to tidy Sherlock's workspace and he immediately stepped into the kitchen to stop her. "I made too much for myself today." Mrs. Hudson did not make too much for herself; as usual, she deliberately made too much food because she had not heard the doorbell ring for delivery in several days and was concerned it meant Sherlock had not eaten in several days. She had forgotten she stocked the refrigerator on Tuesday.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock, "now please go away."

"Sherlock," she scolded with a side-eyed glance that did not flatter her aged face. She obliged him, though, and returned downstairs without her tea tray. Sherlock picked up a piece of toast and took a bite of it while he prepared tea for John. After consuming two pieces of toast, Sherlock brought the tea and a plate into the bedroom where John still slept.

Sherlock set the items onto the nightstand with a deliberate clatter and John's eyes opened. John looked up at Sherlock, confused, and then scanned the room. It took him thirty seconds to realize he was not at home. "Sherlock? What time is it?"

"It's half seven," said Sherlock. "Eat something before it gets cold and then you can go back to sleep."

"I'm not hungry," said John although he reached for the plate anyway. John sat against the headboard and ate nearly half of his food before he looked at Sherlock again. "Did you sleep at all?"

"No, I was thinking," said Sherlock.

"That's not acceptable. Get in."

Sherlock hesitated and John gestured with a nod of his head. Sherlock was not very tired and the puzzle of the buyer still loomed in his mind, but he sat on top of the covers next to John, who finished his breakfast and tea in silence, glancing occasionally over at Sherlock and Sherlock's steepled fingers. Once John drained the last of his tea, he looked over at Sherlock.

"What are you thinking about?"

"The buyer," said Sherlock immediately. "He doesn't fit in."

"Isn't he just a transporter? Someone who they put in charge to make sure the deal went to plan and the drugs made it to the boat or plane or train?"

"But his suit," said Sherlock, and the image of the man's tailored black suit and onyx cufflinks presented itself in Sherlock's mind. "Did you look at his suit, John?"

"Yeah, it was a suit."

"Tailored. Pressed. Gemstone cufflinks. He's not just a transporter. He's important."

"Well you said D'Angelis owned all the farms and this was such a big deal that he came to the exchange personally. Maybe the buyer's the same way. It was such a big deal he had to come personally. Maybe he's a kingpin."

"No, I've identified the kingpin. This was a big deal for D'Angelis, but this was not a big deal for our buyer, otherwise I would know his face or his name by now. He's someone new." Sherlock pressed the tips of his fingers to his lips and did another quick inventory scan, but still the man remained unidentified. Sherlock threw his hands down in exasperation. "Why are you still awake, John? You've had barely four hours' rest."

"No, I'm up now," said John. Sherlock scanned his face. He was exhausted still, awake out of obligation, and was now second guessing his decision to come to Baker Street at all. He and Mary had a domestic, a familiar one, and from the more prominent bags under John's eyes it was clearly about James Sholto, John's former commanding officer and former lover. John hated discussing his relationship with Sholto for multiple reasons: their separation was due to fear of being found out, and John assumed they would be able to reunite after Sholto's retirement, but an incident involving the death of several young men caused Sholto to recluse himself and cut off all communication with John; it was John's first physical relationship with another man; and John did not wish Mary to know that his decision to marry her after only one month of courtship was a direct response to Sholto's disappearance.

"Thank you for letting me stay," said John, in what sounded like the precursor to a goodbye.

"You are always welcome here," replied Sherlock, and before John could attempt to get out of the bed or make an excuse to leave, he continued. "Go back to sleep. It's still early." John looked to the door, clearly still thinking of a reason to leave and return to his wife with the hope that he would arrive before she even awoke, but then looked back at Sherlock.

"Only if you join me."

Sherlock did not reply but did scooch himself under the covers. They both lay back down in the bed, facing each other. John pulled the duvet up to his chin and stared into Sherlock's eyes. The buyer drifted away from Sherlock's mind as he looked back at John's deep blue eyes, his concerned and tired expression, and his underlying desire to repeat the words he said the previous weekend while running his fingers through Sherlock's hair just shortly after they'd had intense post-case intercourse. Despite the absurdity of what John had said to him, Sherlock realized he wanted to hear it again.

"Good night, Sherlock," said John although morning poured into the room like water into a basin.

"Good morning, John," replied Sherlock. He closed his eyes when John did and tried to chase the mystery of the buyer in his mind palace. The man turned and looked back at Sherlock and suddenly Sherlock felt a burst of recognition, but before he could place it, he had fallen asleep.

***

It was noon when Sherlock awoke again, and the passage of time came as a surprise. He had been searching for someone in his mind palace and then, without the type of awareness Sherlock usually kept while on a case, more than four hours had passed and thoughts that occurred just before slumber were lost. This upset Sherlock greatly; he was the master of his body and his mind and thus should never have fallen asleep while thinking, while deducing, while searching, but it happened. Sherlock opened his eyes to see John staring back at him, and Sherlock's anger subsided to a dull annoyance.

"You were out cold," said John, a hint of a smile on his lips.

"How long have you been staring at me?" Sherlock asked.

"Ten minutes," replied John, his smile growing, "maybe longer."

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"You look good when you sleep." The expression on John's face was unmistakable. Before their lie in, John was nervous, upset, and vulnerable. Now, after several hours' sleep and the type of nourishment only a breakfast from Mrs. Hudson could provide, he seemed more like John. More like the John Sherlock knew intimately, and more like the John that wanted to be intimate with Sherlock. It did not take John long, now that Sherlock was indeed awake, to make his move.

John connected their lips lightly. Sherlock responded in turn more out of obligation than anything else; he knew the moment John arrived during the night that the visit would contain some kind of sexual intercourse, and having observed the nature of John's squabble with his wife, Sherlock did not wish to embarrass John further by denying him this outlet. Sherlock was not presently interested in engaging in these activities, but kissing John usually stirred something inside of Sherlock that he had difficulty controlling. He did not try to control it this time, and within sixty seconds of kissing John's soft and moist lips, feeling the stubble of beard growth against his sensitive skin, Sherlock began to feel his blood flow change direction. The rush and warmth caused a small helpless sound to escape from his lips.

This was all the encouragement John needed to become exponentially more aggressive. Although they awoke on their sides facing each other, John's left hand grasped Sherlock's waist and pushed Sherlock onto his back. John lifted his own body over Sherlock's and let his hand travel once he'd arranged them both into position, their mouths still connected. When John's fingers trailed into Sherlock's t-shirt and over his chest, brushing delicately through the thin spread of hair there, Sherlock's heart fluttered in a dangerous, unpleasant sort of way. Sherlock caught John's hand and placed it in safer territory in between Sherlock's legs, where the vigorous kissing had caused enough of a stir that John had something significant to grasp.

"Sherlock," John breathed against Sherlock's mouth. The name was not a name in that instant but instead of declaration of desire, the syllables long and drawn out like John's strokes over Sherlock's pajama bottoms.

Although just a few minutes previously Sherlock had little desire to engage John in any such activity, the pleasure caught up to him. Sex with John was as thrilling as a long chase after a dangerous criminal, as exciting as a triple homicide, and as comforting as hot tea on a cold day, so if there was nothing else on, it was a happy alternative to boredom. The only problem, however, was that John's fingers on Sherlock's erection quickly cleared all thoughts from Sherlock's overactive brain, and those thoughts usually took their time to return once orgasm had been reached. It was not an ideal state during a case, but investigation into the buyer had reached a standstill and Sherlock needed someone else to act in order to finish this puzzle. Thus, Sherlock allowed John to remove his clothes slowly, with care, and then dip his face between Sherlock's legs. His mind went blank instantly.

There was nothing but John. The room itself must have disappeared because there was nothing but bright white light and John. John's hands pushed at Sherlock's thighs to keep his legs apart. John's warm breath exhaled against Sherlock's skin in steady increments. John's mouth covered the taut opening that began to loosen and stretch with the prodding of John's wet tongue. There was nothing but John so Sherlock closed his eyes and let there only be him.

Some sense returned when John let go. The color of the room and the light pouring in through the windows returned. Sherlock's mind was a blissful blob of nothing until John's face appeared, smiling and excited, to kiss Sherlock's mouth again. They kissed and Sherlock reached between John's legs to provide some kind of reciprocation. Sherlock's fingers closed around the impressive girth of John's cock and stroked repeatedly from root to tip, Sherlock's thumb swirling the head because John preferred it that way. It caused John to cease kissing, for John could not kiss while receiving such intense pleasure.

"Sherlock," he said again, but this time he continued, "God, yes, like that." Sherlock opened his eyes to look at John's face while his hand caused so much pleasure that John would suddenly not stop swearing. "Fuck, yes," he repeated in several variations until it was too much, too intense, and Sherlock needed to stop if he wanted to be penetrated – and he very much wanted to be penetrated.

The lubricant had been extracted from the nightstand at some point when the room was nothing but John. John coated his fingers and placed them where his tongue had been not long before, to ensure Sherlock was relaxed enough to receive him. It did not take long. Sherlock's body had begun to feel like putty, as it usually did at this point. John extracted his fingers, causing Sherlock to involuntarily whimper. John smiled his John smile.

"It's okay, love," he said, "I think you're ready for me."

"John," Sherlock said, and it was the first and only word Sherlock could form in such a state. John leaned forward and kissed him once before he propped himself up on his elbows, took himself in his hand, and pressed the head of his cock into Sherlock. Sherlock drew in a sharp breath and John paused, allowing him to adapt, and then once Sherlock relaxed, slid the rest of the way in. "Johnnnn," Sherlock moaned in tandem with John disappearance inside of him. They stayed like that, fully connected, until John positioned himself comfortably on top of Sherlock, John's face in Sherlock's neck, one hand in his curls, the other supporting Sherlock's leg that Sherlock had unknowingly wrapped around John's waist.

After Sherlock felt as though he might expire from the overwhelming fullness of John, John established a steady rhythm, withdrawing slowly and driving in at an angle to touch Sherlock's prostate. The rhythm was deliberate and perfect, derived from experience. John knew that he could make Sherlock come without being touched if he did this well enough, and that seemed to be his goal. Sherlock thus fought the urge to wheedle his hands between them to relieve the aching tension in his cock and instead gripped the top of his headboard in order to balance himself enough to buck back at John. This caused John to prop himself up on his elbows again, his gaze downward at the connection between them. Within minutes of Sherlock's response, Sherlock began to feel the whiteout return to the room. Everything disappeared – the midday sunlight, the ceiling, the walls, the bed underneath him. Everything was white until he came with a loud cry, shooting streams of semen against his stomach and John's chest.

"God, I love you," said John when Sherlock began to come down, when the white began to fade and the rest of the colors began to return. Sherlock heard it, of course, but did not respond. John thrust twice more after his declaration and then stilled, and Sherlock could feel the wet warmth spread inside of him. John let out a deep breath, his head hanging down, then sniffed, pulled out, and lay next to Sherlock on the bed.

They cleaned up and John redressed. There was no reason to stay now. There was no case per se, except for the Case of the Unidentified Buyer That Had Reached a Dead End, and although they could have lunch, watch telly, play a game, there really was no purpose to any of it apart from Sherlock's desire to not see John walk out the front door.

Sherlock also dressed. He followed John to the door. John turned back to Sherlock and scanned his face and Sherlock did not know why – it was still too early for deductions. In ten minutes he would see this action again and would know why. When John's scan concluded he looked angry. John had no reason to be angry.

"See you Monday, then," said John bitterly.

"Yes," said Sherlock, but not bitterly.

John walked down the steps and slammed the door on his way out. Sherlock returned to the evidence wall and began to stare at it.

Ten minutes later Sherlock realized it.

John wanted Sherlock to ask him to stay.


	7. Chapter 7

At eight-fifteen on Monday morning John returned from the kitchen with two mugs of tea. One mug employed the RAMC crest, the other was a custom-made black mug with the words "World's Greatest Detective" on it. It was a mug that John only used when he was angry with Sherlock, because Sherlock absolutely hated the mug for reducing his brilliance to a novelty, and it was a simple, petty way to get back at him. John was still angry with Sherlock but deliberately did not think on it and instead decided to focus on work, although this week there would be very little of it.

John set the mug of tea on Sherlock's desk. Sherlock, who typed engineering nonsense into his computer at an alarming speed, picked up the mug without a word or glance in John's direction. Once halfway to his lips, Sherlock looked down and then immediately crashed the mug back onto his desk where hot milky tea splashed all over Sherlock's keyboard, newspaper, and book.

"Too much milk?" John asked with an innocent grin. The intensity of Sherlock's glare should have been frightening, but it was not.

"Why do you insist on using this mug? There are at least four others at your desk that do not display offense writing on them."

"I don't know what you're talking about," said John.

"Are you satisfied?" Sherlock asked. John nodded. "Are you still angry?"

John opened his mouth to reply in the affirmative, but the fact that Sherlock even broached the subject while at the office was a testament to how much John's brief, unvocalized temper tantrum had affected Sherlock. Sherlock would only discuss cases when alone with John, either if the other engineers were not present or if they were alone in the lab or the lift. Dimmock sat on one side of Sherlock's wall, hands over his ears in a passive aggressive attempt to get John to notice that he was not welcome, and although Sherlock's neighbor on the other side was not present, Monica Miller occupied the final cubicle in their row of four. Sherlock definitely did not discuss feelings, regardless of who was present.

"No," John said and shook his head. He expected Sherlock to look relieved, but Sherlock did not, and John supposed there was only so far the man could go. "No, it's fine." Sherlock nodded once and returned his attention to his computer screen, and this time did take a sip of tea.

"There is too much milk, though," he said.

"Then you can make it yourself next time," replied John. "Are you going to clean up the mess you made?" Clearly Sherlock was not since he looked already engrossed in whatever designing software he had up on his computer. John did not pretend to comprehend what Sherlock was doing with the program – John was thoroughly well versed in the treatment of trauma patients and could stitch a body back together in the field if necessary (something he knew Sherlock could not do, and that puffed out his chest every time he thought of it), but whatever Sherlock was doing seemed light years away from his scope of knowledge. Since John did not understand it, he turned his attention to the mess that was Sherlock's desk instead.

Sherlock was an untidy person, and while the mess to him could be considered ordered chaos, John could only see the chaos. Sherlock did not throw away old newspapers or research. He only sometimes took his books home. He never threw away the paper cups of tea, and some of the ones atop his overhead bin or in the back corners of his desk were growing mold, but not the exciting kind of mold he would experiment upon. John would not know where to begin to clean this mess, and thus left the tea as it stained the newspaper and the tattered copy of _Anna Karenina_ by Tolstoy.

"Is that what you're reading right now?" John asked and he picked up the paperback novel. Sherlock only glanced away from his monitor.

"Yes."

"I can't believe you're reading this for fun. I had to read it in Uni."

"It's a classic," said Sherlock. Although he had not read it since university, he did remember most of the novel – his professor was one of the life-changing professors, the kind whose classes were so full people would sit in the aisles just to listen. John quickly found a passage and replaced Sherlock's marker. "What are you doing? Now I've lost my place."

"No you haven't," John teased. He replaced the book and walked away.

***

John spent most of the morning at St. Bart's with his old friend Mike Stamford in an effort to push the most recently cleared prototype into the hands of a practicing doctor. Sherlock's most recent product, the portable x-ray, would not be ready for this stage for several months or perhaps even years, so instead John came to Bart's with a mobile app that someone had developed long before John was an employee at Venture.

"I don't even keep my phone on me when I'm working," said Mike from behind his desk. "I'm not going to use it in the hospital."

"It's more for record keeping," said John. "You wouldn't use it when you're with the patient, but it's got excellent vocal recognition so you can dictate your charting. Just take the phone for a few days. Let me know if you like it or not."

Mike looked skeptical, but skepticism on Mike was extremely pleasant. Mike had always had a very open face, and perhaps it was the ease of his grin or the brightness of his eyes behind his glasses, or perhaps the fact that he often wore loud and obnoxious ties. Either way, John enjoyed being able to come to Bart's, not only to be in a hospital again and away from the maze of cubicles at Venture, but to get paid to chat to his friend.

"Why do I always feel like your guinea pig for these things?" Mike asked, although he still accepted the phone from John. "Don't you have other clients?"

"Yeah but only you like me," said John.

"That's debatable," replied Mike, but the smile on his face said otherwise. "All right, I'll try it. Is the one of Sherlock's?"

"No, it's someone else. One of the IT engineers. I spit the most complicated jargon I could think of at it and it caught everything without error. It's a decent program."

"Can I keep the phone?"

"Sure," said John, "but there's no data plan. You'll need Wi-Fi to use the program." Mike shrugged his shoulders and placed the phone in the desk drawer. "Let me know if it's decent. I think it might be useful, but like you said maybe more for a GP than a hospital."

"Tell Sherlock to get on a mobile that I can use in the hospital."

"I'm sure he'll get right on it," said John, although he knew if anyone had the capability at Venture to create such a device, it would be Sherlock. "What're you doing for lunch? I'm meeting Greg for Thai in half an hour."

"Ah, wish I could mate, but I'm here alone for another three hours. Give me some more notice next time and I'll join you." Mike stood and shook John's hand. "Give my love to Mary, yeah?" John nodded. "When are we scheduled to meet again?"

"I've got nothing in the pipeline right now but I'll give you a ring once something else is approved." Mike said goodbye and although John left the office quickly, he took his time to leave the building. He'd trained at Bart's before army and while quite a few changes had occurred during his time away, the building still felt the same.

John wandered for twenty minutes up and down the hallways of the hospital that brought back memories of adrenaline and experience. He performed his first surgery in this OR and, on his pass of the second floor, found the room where he'd been kicked in the face when performing a gynecological exam with a too-cold speculum. Just before he realized he was going to be late for lunch, he passed the room where he interviewed for a job just seven months before and was told due to the tremor in his hand, he could not be relied upon to perform his duties safely. John looked at his left hand, steady in this moment but unreliable in others, and wondered if he'd ever really be a doctor again.

***

"Mary wants you over for dinner," said John shortly into his meal with Greg. Greg spun noodles on his plate before he looked up.

"Yeah? Just Mary, then?"

"Yeah, I don't want you to come," said John, and although he was ribbing, and although Greg laughed, John realized that he was actually telling the truth. "Whenever you want, really. Mary's usually out late on Tuesdays – deadlines or something, she says – so if you want to pop in we can make you something decent. Do not let her talk you into a meat pie. For the love of God, don't let her talk you into a meat pie."

"I've never been entirely partial to meat pies anyway," said Greg, "but yeah, I don't see why not. Mycroft too?"

"If he's available, yeah," said John, "but if it's just you that's fine too."

"It'll more than likely just be me," said Greg, "but sure. Thursday?" John nodded and began to immediately dread the passing of the week. Mondays were difficult enough – John spent most of his weekends with Sherlock and although this past weekend they'd really only been together to sleep, the weekends usually provided an escape from the monotony of office life. John did not want to have to entertain Greg in front of Mary, or even worse, have to entertain Mary in front of Greg. "How was France?"

John's adrenaline picked up just at the thought of the half-day trip to Aurillac and the resulting (and fortunately temporary) hearing loss.

"It was brilliant," said John. "Sherlock blew up two trucks full of weed. Five million pounds' worth."

"Wow," said Greg. "I am in the wrong line of work. Forensics is not interesting."

"Forensics is incredibly interesting!" responded John.

"Well yeah, if you're actually doing it to solve a crime. We're in engineering. I love what I do and sometimes I even love my people – Anderson and Donovan will be back to squabbling soon, I'm sure – but that's not where the action is. I'd love to look at it from the other side. I'd love to look at a crime scene and collect the evidence and find the perp instead of just coding DNA or matching up the striations on bullets."

"Sounds to me like you're ready for a career change," said John, and he thought of the white walls and fluorescent lighting that brought the cold and sterile feel to the hallways of St. Bart's. Everything was clean and proper and held to such a high standard. Sherlock's desk probably still had tea on it.

"Maybe," said Greg. "Mycroft's got enough excitement for the both of us, though. Maybe I should just stick to managing a team of idiots and rebuilding the scanners."

"Whatever makes you happy, Greg," said John.

They switched the discussion to football and Greg listened to John discuss last night's game with uninterrupted enthusiasm.

When John returned to Venture with Greg forty-five minutes later, John headed directly to Sherlock's desk with the box of leftovers, knowing that Sherlock usually did not break for lunch but would eat if John shoved it in his face. However when John arrived, Sherlock's computer was off and Sherlock was nowhere to be found.

"Is Sherlock in the lab?" John asked Dimmock, who stopped typing, turned fully to face John, and spoke loudly.

"No, he's not in the lab. He took off hours ago and no one's seen or heard from him since. You should switch his phone to out of office, too; it's been ringing like mad and nobody can concentrate." John looked at the other two desks in the row, and they also were both empty. Dimmock was the only person within earshot of Sherlock's desk phone.

"You could have easily done it too," said John but Dimmock huffed and returned back to his computer. John scrunched his face in annoyance but sat at Sherlock's desk and changed the mode of his phone so it would stop ringing. Sherlock's keys were gone but he'd left his book with the marker in the same place John had left it that morning. John set the leftovers on the desk and then picked up the book. There was no indication that Sherlock had even looked at it until John opened it and saw the marker's cutout had been placed directly over John's selected passage:

_I've always loved you, and when you love someone, you love the whole person, just as he or she is, and not as you would like them to be._

John took in a sharp breath and wondered if he'd crossed a line this time. He replaced the book and peered around the cubicle wall at Dimmock.

"What time did you say he left?"

"Right away," said Dimmock exasperatedly. "Maybe ten minutes after you were here."

John's breath escalated and he bolted out of the cube, leaving the leftovers to spoil on Sherlock's desk with the tea stains and curdled cups, and found Sarah at her desk. Sarah smiled happily at John when he arrived.

"Hi John. How was lunch?"

"Great," said John. "Did you see Sherlock leave?"

"Yeah," said Sarah. "Almost right after he came in this morning too. Took his coat and gloves so I doubt he went to the lab. He not back yet?" John shook his head. "Weird. I wonder where he could have gone.  I hope it doesn't have anything to do with how Elise left last week."

"Yeah…" said John and he turned back toward the aisle to his desk. "See you later, Sarah."

"I'm sure it's nothing, John. Maybe he left the oven on."

John didn't respond to Sarah as he walked back to his desk. Once there he pulled out his mobile and texted Sherlock:

_Where'd you go?_

John didn't get a response.


	8. Chapter 8

On Friday morning Sherlock sat down at his desk to an unusual smell. The old cups of tea had been there for ages and their smell was minimal at this point – or at least he'd grown accustomed to them – but the new smell seemed to come from the take away container left haphazardly next to his phone. Sherlock did not bother to open it, knowing that doing so would just release the smell further, so instead he dropped the container in the bin and hoped that someone would get rid of it before Monday.

He barely had time to set down his book and take off his coat when John Watson came barreling down the hallway from his own desk with heavy, persistent footsteps in this direction. Sherlock sat at his computer before John bombarded him.

"Where the hell have you been?" John asked. John looked positively enraged but that was to be expected due to his uncomfortable dinner party the night previous with Mycroft and Greg. Mary served meat pie and everybody hated it; John looked starved, and he usually was grumpy when hungry. "Did you throw your phone away again? I've been texting you for days."

Sherlock had not needed to use his phone since Monday. He took the phone out of his pocket and looked at it to find fifty-seven text messages from John. "I was out of town for a bit," Sherlock somewhat explained.

John's text messages started simple enough but followed a progression from worried to afraid to irate. Sherlock only skimmed over the majority of them but paused on one set in particular:

_Listen, I know I've said some things that aren't what you want to hear. That doesn't mean I can stop feeling them. Maybe I've said too much too soon._

_No, I don't think I've said too much._

_I love you._

_And I know that you don't think about these things because you have other things to think on. That's fine, because sometimes I look at you and I see what I need to see. But I love you. Don't let me ever doubt that I do._

_Just answer me, please._

"John," said Sherlock quietly, but when he looked up John had gone. Sherlock immediately stood again and headed toward John's desk, but once he reached the aisle overlooking pharmaceuticals, he noticed John sitting on the stability ball Sarah Sawyer kept at her desk. John pointedly did not look at Sherlock, even though Sherlock was very clearly in John's sightline. John and Sarah laughed together while they looked at something on her computer, and when Sherlock walked past, he realized they were sharing pictures of cats. The entire office was obsessed with cats.

Sherlock took a detour to the lift so he could walk by John's empty desk. John always picked up the newspaper while waiting for the tube so he could fill out the crossword on the ride in, but it always took both the ride in and the ride home to finish it. In punishment for being amused by something as insipid as cats, Sherlock filled in the remainder of the crossword and sat it back on John's desk in plain sight. He then proceeded to the lift and pressed six for the forensic department.

Lestrade was not present when Sherlock arrived, which was very unfortunate. Even more unfortunate, the only other members in the forensic lab were Anderson and Donovan, who stood too close to each other by the supply closet. They jumped apart when they realized Sherlock was in the room. Anderson was attempting the beard again which clearly irritated Donovan's chest and neck when they shagged.

"Sherlock Holmes," said Anderson with his usual condescension. "What do you want?"

"I need to run a set of fingerprints," said Sherlock.

"This isn't a crime lab, this is an engineering department," said Donovan. "You can't just come in here and run fingerprints through the system. Those systems are monitored; we'll get questions if we find a match."

"I can assure you that if any questions arise, no one will be asking you," said Sherlock and without permission he approached the fingerprinting scanner. Before either of them could complain further he ran his fingerprint through the scanner and began his search. Donovan and Anderson continued to cast him furtive glances as the scan continued to run. Sherlock requisitioned a microscope at the other side of the work bench.

"Don't you have a lab you can use instead?" asked Donovan, "like an entire floor with better equipment than ours?" Sherlock didn't respond and fortunately Donovan decided not to push.

Sherlock had two soil and two leaf samples to compare, and while the lab he usually used had enough equipment to analyze the samples, it did not have a fingerprint scanner. The forensics department required close association to Anderson and Donovan, but the case outweighed Sherlock's dislike of Lestrade's staff.

Lestrade returned to the forensics lab when Sherlock was processing soil, Sherlock's leaf samples set upon the counter for later analysis. Donovan immediately began to complain. "Can you please do something about this?" she asked Lestrade with an emphatic gesture toward Sherlock. "He's running fingerprints, he's drained half my solution, and he's using the best microscope."

"Sherlock," said Lestrade happily and approached his brother-in-law. "What brings you to forensics?"

"Analysis," said Sherlock.

"Of what? Soil samples and…" Lestrade picked up the leaves sitting in evidence baggies next to Sherlock. "…and weed? Did you bring weed into my lab, Sherlock?"

"Like I said," Sherlock replied and snatched the two samples from Lestrade's hand. "Analysis."

"Well you're not analyzing drugs in my lab," said Lestrade and Donovan shot Anderson a smug look, causing Anderson to smile in return. "I'll let you know if your fingerprint finds a match. Take your samples and go back to your lab – at least then if someone catches you with weed it won't be my arse on the line."

Sherlock reluctantly returned to his lab with the samples, and after a few minutes it was obvious the soil samples were a match. Sherlock tested the leaf samples as well, but if the soils matched then the leaf analysis was not necessary. Just as he confirmed his suspicions, Lestrade entered the lab with a printout and a photo, which he handed to Sherlock.

The photo was of the buyer. There was very little information to accompany his photo, but Greg's printout included the man's fingerprints and a name: _Sebastian Moran_.

"Moran," said Sherlock as if testing it out. "Sebastian Moran."

"Why the hell do you have Sebastian Moran's fingerprints?" Lestrade asked.

"Do you know him?"

"No, but his result popped up confidential on the scanner and I immediately got a call from Mycroft asking where I got his fingerprints and why we were running them at Venture. If Mycroft is involved then this is definitely not work related."

"On the contrary, it is definitely work related," said Sherlock. "Did my brother say anything else?"

"No, once I explained it was your doing he didn't bother to ask anything further, but I had to send Donovan and Anderson home early because they're rebooting all of our equipment. What have you got yourself into this time, Sherlock?"

"That is what I intend to find out," replied Sherlock, and his eyes scanned the strong angles of Moran's face. Although he wore a suit during the exchange in Aurillac, his photo was from his time in the Irish military. He served some of the same years as John, but nothing that would overlap. The file did not give reason for the end of his service, but it stopped abruptly with an odd number of years served, which suggested a dishonorable discharge. "Tell Mycroft to call me. I need more information."

"I am not getting involved," said Lestrade, "and it sounds like neither should you. How'd you get wrapped into something like in the first place? This isn't a local crime and I doubt someone's commissioning you to go to France and who knows where to investigate drug smugglers."

"I have a personal interest in this one," said Sherlock. "Didn't you just tell John Watson you were interested in getting out of forensics and into the field? This would be a perfect opportunity for you."

"I'd like to get into the field as in finding out who's killing people in London," said Lestrade. "Not who's transporting five million quid worth of pot halfway around the world. I'd like to stay local."

"Well I'm sure there's a murder occurring right now in this city. You're welcome to go investigate," said Sherlock and he resealed his samples. "Mycroft's probably at Diogenes this time of day. If you won't phone him I think I'll pop by."

"Don't you have work to do?" Lestrade asked. "Real engineering work, not whatever the hell it is you do when you're not here?"

"No one will miss me," said Sherlock and he headed to the door of the lab.

"At least tell John where you're going," said Lestrade. "I'm fairly certain he will."

Sherlock did not respond before he left but he once in the lift he took a deep breath and decided a detour would be necessary. When Sherlock arrived at John's desk, John threw his newspaper at him.

"You absolute asshole, I'd been working on that one," seethed John. "I knew the answers too; I knew I could solve this one on my own."

"I was merely saving you the trouble of filling it in yourself," said Sherlock and John shot him his usual annoyed glare. John Watson could terrify the hardest criminal with his quiet anger, but John saved his boisterous fury for when he was unnecessarily annoyed with Sherlock. "I've found some information on our buyer. Mycroft seems to know more so I will out for the rest of the day." Sherlock suddenly felt very foolish for telling John this at all. "If you happened to need me later."

"Thank you, Sherlock," said John, and the boyish anger left his face completely. "That was very considerate of you." Sherlock nodded once. "Did you read my texts?"

"Yes," said Sherlock.

"And?"

"And," said Sherlock with reluctance, "I think I have another book for you to read." John sighed heavily but followed Sherlock to his desk. Sherlock replaced his marker and then handed the book to John. "I might need you this weekend. It depends on how quickly our buyer discovers I have his fingerprints. Once that's in motion, we'll need to act quickly."

"Act on what quickly? What's going on, Sherlock?"

"Be careful, John," said Sherlock. Sherlock put on his coat and popped his collar. John's eyes travelled Sherlock's exposed neck before Sherlock hid it beneath his blue scarf. "Don't mention to anyone that we've discovered the buyer's identity. There's someone else here."

"What do you mean there's someone else here?" John asked. "You haven't even told me his name yet!"

"Exactly," said Sherlock. "Just be quiet about it. Don't discuss it with anyone until we're sure we know our next move."

"Sherlock, you haven't told me anything that I could even share. I don't like it when you keep me in the dark."

"It's for your own good," said Sherlock. "I'll text you if I need you. Until then…" Sherlock looked down at the novel in John's hands before returning to John's dark blue eyes. "Enjoy the book."

Sherlock passed Dimmock's empty desk and turned the corner toward the lift, where he ignored the greetings from the pharmaceutical team. As much as he did not look forward to a conversation with his brother, the mystery was beginning to unravel.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock apparently did not need John until ten o'clock on Tuesday night when John was changing into his pajamas and Mary was in the shower. The text alert on John's phone on the nightstand beeped in several quick successions, which usually meant that it was Sherlock.

_I need you. SH_

_There's been a murder. SH_

_Meet me at Baker Street. SH_

John sighed heavily. It was ten o'clock and it was time for bed. Office life might have been dull but it instilled in John a regimented routine that he did not like to break, not during the week at least. Regardless if he could go into work late in the morning (which he couldn't because he had a new product demonstration at nine o'clock that he'd already rescheduled once), Mary would be awake at six so she could get across town by eight. John was getting too old to be productive after less than eight hours of sleep.

_Please. SH_

John threw his phone onto the bed in frustration before he opened the dresser and pulled out a pair of jeans. He dressed and had just finished tying his shoes when Mary walked into the bedroom in her nightgown, her short blonde hair still wet but combed back out of her face. She dropped her work clothes into the hamper.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Case," said John.

"It's ten o'clock on a Tuesday," said Mary.

"I know," said John.

"You know how much I adore Sherlock," said Mary and John prepared himself for the rest of her statement, "but you've got an important job. Sherlock can find work anywhere. What's going to happen to you if they fire you because you keep showing up late or running off to France or wherever?"

"They're not going to fire me," said John and he left the room. He decided not to tell Mary of Mycroft's involvement at Venture and how if any of his superiors were to comment on his absences, Mycroft would intervene.

Mary followed John out of the room and watched as he put on his coat. "I have no problem with you spending the weekends over there solving London's problems with him. I like how excited it makes you, but you don't need to be at his beck and call all the time."

"If I'm back tonight, I'll be quiet," said John. "Don't wait up." Mary frowned at him and he kissed her lips briefly. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, John."

Mary watched him leave the house but didn't comment further. John arrived at Sherlock's in twenty minutes; before John could reach for the front door, Sherlock opened it and stepped outside. "Three streets away. Follow me."

Sherlock looked as fresh as the morning. John felt like he worked an entire day and then came home to fix a broken doorknob, which he did. That was one of Sherlock's amazing qualities – to look as good at ten o'clock at night as he did at ten o'clock in the morning.

Sherlock led the way to the crime scene with John directly next to him. Sherlock kept his hands in the pockets of his coat, walking at a brisk pace that looked leisurely on him due to his incredibly long legs. John, on the other hand, balled his fists at his side and swung them back and forth as he attempted to keep up. Occasionally his hand would graze Sherlock's arm and he would feel an electric tingle in his skin like he used to before, when he and Sherlock were just friends with unresolved sexual tension. It did not get easier once the sex started; it only made the tension more palpable and identifiable. Before the first move John could chalk it up to nerves or excitement or even anger. After the first move there was no denying the thick air that clouded in their proximity. They were two men who were very attracted to one another and, when the moment was right, knew they would act upon it.

The scene was already taped off when they arrived and, to John's bewilderment, Greg stood just outside the line with the same tired expression that John wore. "What are you doing here?" John asked.

"I've asked Lestrade to assist," said Sherlock. Sherlock ducked under the tape and held it aloft for John to pass under. Lestrade hesitated before he passed under as well. John approached the body: young, probably early twenties, female, blonde –

"Oh my God that's Elise," said John.

"Yes," said Sherlock and he briefly paused at John's side before continuing toward the body. "What can you tell me?"

"What is there to tell?" John asked. "She was shot twice. One in the heart and once between the eyes."

Elise lay on her back in middle of the alleyway, dressed in yoga pants, V-neck T-shirt, and trainers, but from the look of her eye makeup and the style of her hair, that just appeared to be her outfit. She did not look like she was out for a run or headed to the gym. The first gunshot must have been to her chest due to the blood, but she must have been quickly shot a second time, after she fell, directly between the eyes.

"Whoever did this wanted to make sure she was dead," said John.

"What about the body?" Sherlock asked. "Lestrade, over here." Lestrade approached the body as well but kept his hands in his pockets and stepped carefully, like a true forensics agent, not wanting to disturb the scene. Sherlock had already put on gloves and began to poke at various points of interest on Elise's body.

John approached the other side of Elise's body and, after accepting the pair of gloves Sherlock thrust at him, began to check her. She faced the street instead of the alleyway, so either she was leaving the alley or she turned to someone approaching from behind.

"She's been dead two hours," John said, "maybe a little longer, but I doubt it."

"Why would she be in an alleyway at this time of night?" Greg asked.

"Why indeed," said Sherlock. "Anything else, John?"

"No signs of a struggle at all. Her nails are fine, the polish isn't even chipped. No scratch marks except ones conducive to a fall onto concrete. There wasn't any fight here."

"So either she knew her attacker, wasn't afraid of her attacker, or maybe was getting mugged and was too terrified to fight back?" Greg asked.

"Not a mugging," said Sherlock. "Her purse is over there." Sherlock pointed to one of the uniformed policemen who'd been bagging evidence. "If it were a mugging the entire purse would be gone."

"They could've just asked for her phone and credit cards," suggested Greg.

"And risked her calling the cops while searching for her wallet? If you don't have anything useful to add, Lestrade, don't say anything at all."

"Hey, be nice," said Greg.

"What're you thinking, Sherlock?" John asked to break up the potential argument that could arise between the two. "If it wasn't a mugging gone bad, then what? Do you think she knew her attacker?"

"Doubtful," said Sherlock and he stood, having collected what he needed from Elise's body. John looked back down at her, her blank eyes staring upward at the night sky, "however in light of recent events it probably did not come as a shock to her. She's off the main road but only slightly. She does live nearby but this isn't her normal route home. That suggests she either switched up her route to avoid being followed or knew she was being followed and tried to shortcut in this direction. When she passed through the alley and was nearly to the street she encountered her attacker, accepted her fate, and was shot twice in quick succession. The attacker was waiting for her here and either knew she was switching up her route or met her here after tailing for several streets. None of the witnesses report hearing any gunshots –"

"Witnesses?" Greg asked. "When did you hear the witnesses? You've been here all of five minutes!"

"If there were shots, there would have been 999 calls. Those are all flats above these shops here. Someone would have called it in and the only person who called it in was that man over there –" Sherlock pointed at a man in sweatpants speaking to a police officer, "– who said he saw her in the alley on his way to the shop for milk. He didn't hear anything either. The area has been roped off for a half hour at this point and lights have been flashing the entire time. If anyone else heard anything, they would have stopped by to say so. So no, none of the witnesses report hearing gunshots, so this was a professional hit. Elise has been a target since the busted deal in France so this is likely her own people who feel like they cannot trust her. Had she stayed at Venture instead of running she would have appeared less guilty and would still be alive."

"Elise was connected to the drug deal in France?" asked Greg.

"Lestrade, I said I would allow you to accompany us as a favor to my brother. Do not make me regret this more than I already do." Greg closed his mouth again. "Right. I think we're done here." Sherlock pulled off his gloves and began to head back the way they came. John and Greg followed closely behind.

"Sherlock," said John after he disposed of his own gloves, "how big is this network that you're investigating? There are people at Venture, people in France, a buyer who apparently is important, and the receivers in some other country we don't know about. They're transporting millions of pounds of weed in trucks protected by men with machine guns, and our receptionist has just been executed in an alleyway. How long is it going to be before they discover we're involved and I'm getting shot in the head?"

"Trust me, John, no one is shooting you in the head," said Sherlock. "Not while I'm around."

"But you're not always around, Sherlock! You were gone the entirety of last week! I saw you for maybe ten minutes."

"No one is going to shoot you," said Sherlock and he stopped walking to enforce his point. "They already know we're involved. The pawns are in place to play us. All we have to do is continue the game."

John took in a deep breath and looked at Greg, who looked considerably less concerned about his welfare than John. Greg actually looked incredibly elated to have been inside an actual crime scene with an actual dead body and did not look the least bit concerned that it was someone he knew. John wanted to fault him for this, but ten minutes after John returned home after his own first crime scene, he could not keep the grin from his face even when Mary asked him what was so funny. There was nothing funny about that case but his grin remained and he took Mary on the couch as soon as she stopped talking.

Greg went home in a Mycroft car when they arrived back at Baker Street, apparently only there for the glory of the crime scene and not the ensuing debrief. John was actually relieved by this as he followed Sherlock up the stairs and into the flat. He was tired and wanted to sleep, and if he complained enough about it, Sherlock would potentially accompany him.

"Do you know who did it?" John asked. He removed his shoes and untucked his shirt. "Or does it not matter? Is just 'someone from the network' good enough?"

"I know who did it," said Sherlock.

"Yeah? Just from five minutes at the crime scene? Did you know before we even got there?"

"I had an idea," said Sherlock. "I just confirmed it."

"Did we even need to go?" Sherlock shook his head. "Seriously? Why'd you call me out at ten o'clock in the evening when we didn't even need to go?"

"I promised Mycroft I'd invite Lestrade to the next crime scene. Lestrade likes me more when you're there. Besides, I always value your input."

"Someone else could have told you she was dead two hours and that she didn't fight back."

"But no one else would tell me as quickly as you," said Sherlock. He looked down at John's socked feet. "Do you want to spend the night?"

"Yes," said John without hesitation.

"All right. I need to think anyway."

Sherlock followed John into the bedroom. John removed his jeans and shirt and climbed into his side of the bed. Sherlock did not remove his clothing, did not tuck under the covers, and did not face John when John turned off the light and turned toward Sherlock. Sherlock sat up with his fingers at his lips, and that was the last image John saw before he let himself fall asleep.


	10. Chapter 10

When John awoke in the morning, Sherlock had managed to also fall asleep at some point during the night. He must have done so while thinking because he remained atop the covers but slumped over onto John's pillow, his nose in John's hair, his right arm spread out against John's back as John lay on his side, facing Sherlock's crotch. Sherlock had removed his shoes and socks before he sat on the bed, but he still wore the rest of his suit, including his jacket.

John carefully sidled out of this awkward almost-cuddle and looked at the time on Sherlock's bedside clock. It was six-thirty in the morning. John wore work clothes to the crime scene on purpose, knowing that this situation was a possibility. He would not be late for work if they woke up now, but he did not have time to go home and change.

"Sherlock," said John quietly and he touched Sherlock's shoulder with his hand. Sherlock mumbled something that did not resemble English and, knowing Sherlock, it probably wasn't. "Sherlock, get up. It's time to go to work."

"Let's not," said Sherlock and his extended right arm caught John on the waist and did not let go. John looked down at Sherlock's hand on his skin and relished in the moment that Sherlock wanted him to stay.

"No, Sherlock, come on," said John. Sherlock gently opened his eyes and looked up at John and as he adjusted to consciousness, his gentle face turned hard with the walls that he built around himself and hid behind constantly. There were moments – few and far between – when John was allowed to peek over these walls, and the man that John saw behind them was John's favorite person in existence. It was worth all of the insults, all of the darkness, and all of the worry to be able to see the glimpses of who Sherlock Holmes truly was.

Sherlock sat up and climbed out of his odd position on the bed. He lumbered carefully over to the bathroom and when he shut the door behind him John could see him disrobe through the frosted glass. John redressed before he entered the kitchen with the idea to make coffee only to discover it was already brewing and Mrs. Hudson was laying out toast and jam, still in her dressing gown.

"Oh, John," she said, clearly startled by his appearance. "What are you doing here so early?" The look on her face clearly stated that she meant to ask "so late" rather than "so early."

"Sherlock and I had a case late last night," said John. "It was easier to stay than to go home. We're both headed the same way anyway."

"Yes, I suppose you are," said Mrs. Hudson. "Well had I known you'd be here I would have brought up more toast. I hope you like raspberry."

"Yes, thank you," said John.

"Good, at least this time I know it won't go to waste."

John sat and attempted to take toast from the plate but Mrs. Hudson instead began to apply butter and jam for him. When the coffee brewed she prepared him a cup and set it down in front of him. Sherlock exited the bathroom with his hair more controlled and in a fresh suit. Mrs. Hudson offered him toast; he declined the food and accepted the coffee.

"Are you ready?" Sherlock asked. John stuffed the rest of his toast in his mouth and attempted to thank Mrs. Hudson, who waved off his muffled gratitude with her hand. John followed Sherlock out the door and off to work. Sherlock preferred a cab to the tube so they paid an unnecessary amount of money for a shorter ride to work, in which John was unable to complete any of his routine morning crossword because Sherlock would not let him stop for a newspaper.

"Do you think people at work will have heard?" John asked. "About Elise?"

"Possibly. Word travels quickly and people like to talk."

Sherlock was correct. After John's presentation at nine o'clock he passed by Sarah's desk, who immediately called him over to gossip. John sat down on her stability ball and her entire face lit up at the chance to theorize what had happened. "There's not much in the papers," Sarah said, her bright eyes wide with excitement, "but I heard from Jerry – you know Jerry, he sits two rows that way –" Sarah pointed at the middle-aged balding fat man two rows to her right. "I heard from Jerry that she was shot right in the face. I don't know how they identified her."

"Her face wasn't blown off, she was shot in between the eyes," said John. "It was very easy to identify her."

"What?" Sarah asked and she sat back in her chair, her face aghast. "How do you know she was shot between the eyes?" John pursed his lips together and wondered if this were something he should really share with others, but as he, Sherlock, and Greg had walked away from the crime scene the reporters were beginning to file in. They were not trying to hide their involvement, so it was entirely possibly that one or all of them had been photographed during their brief investigation.

"It's just… It's something Sherlock and I tend to do. We assist the police with certain crimes."

"Really?" Sarah asked. "So you're, like, private detectives or something?"

"Yeah, sort of," said John.

"That is absolutely fascinating. Here I thought all this time you two were having an illicit love affair." John shrugged his shoulders and didn't comment further. "That explains so much. That must be why he was in Japan last week."

John's tight-lipped smirk that he used to hide his emotion slid off of his face and the worry began to return, as fervent and comprehensive as it had been while John waited next to his mobile for Sherlock to reply to John's texts and phone calls.

"Japan?" John asked.

"Didn't he tell you?" Sarah asked. She seemed to sense John's concern over this and her exuberant attitude deflated, just like John's had. "Okay, so if I show you this, you can't call me a creeper, okay?"

"What are you talking about? How did you know he was in Japan?"

"I have a friend who went over there," said Sarah and she pulled up her Facebook page. John waited, his breath shallow, as she began to click through photos of someone's vacation in Japan. "She was in Tokyo on holiday and I was looking at her photos when I saw this one."

Sarah pulled up a photo of the Koishikawa Korakuen Gardens in Tokyo and in the background was unmistakably Sherlock, dressed in his blue scarf and long coat, walking swiftly along the pavement, his gaze pointed to someone just out of frame. John took a sharp breath in at the sight of him and then looked over at Sarah, who looked incredibly concerned.

"I'm sorry," said Sarah. "I assumed you knew he was there. I'm surprised he went without you, if you really are involved with this detective stuff." John stared at the photo of Sarah's friend. The woman in the photo had dark hair and large eyes and was taking the picture of herself. While she was the primary subject of the photo, Sherlock was clearly visible in the background. John glanced at the thumbnails of the other photos and this was the only one including Sherlock – all the rest were normal touristy photos of famous Tokyo landmarks and signs in Japanese.

While John stared, the familiar ping of email chimed through Sarah's speakers and an alert in the lower right corner of the screen popped up.

 

 **Lincoln, Joshua**  
**Agenda**

Can you print the agenda for our…

 

"Oh crap," said Sarah and she clicked open the email. "I forgot about this. Let me go print this real quick and I'll come back."

Sarah sent several copies of the meeting agenda to the printer in the nearby copy room. Before John could make an excuse to return to his desk, she was out of her seat and on her way. When she disappeared out of sight, John's eyes drifted back to her computer. She'd left the email up instead of Facebook and he didn't feel right using her computer to return to it, so he waited awkwardly on the stability ball for her to return.

Not long after Sarah entered the copy room another email pinged in her speakers and John, who also kept the sound on at his desk and was now conditioned to respond, looked automatically at the lower right corner of the screen.

 

 **Finch, Renee**  
**The Final Problem**

SH is becoming a problem and must…

 

John's eyes immediately flickered back to the copy room. Renee Finch was the name of the woman in the photograph in Tokyo that contained Sherlock. John immediately clicked open the message and read the rest:

SH is becoming a problem and must be eliminated. Where are you with JW?

A flight of terror swooped down John's spine as he read the message. Of course Sarah was involved. She was the only other person in the company who cared about John and Sherlock's relationship and prodded John for more information.

John closed the email and realized that his opening it to read the full contents had marked it as read. With another wave of terror he looked over again at the copy room where Sarah still remained out of sight. He right-clicked on the message, marked it as unread, and sat up straight on the stability ball just in time for Sarah to reappear with a small stack of paper.

"Sorry about that," she said. "I completely forgot I had to print these. You okay?"

John nodded.

"I wish he would have told you," said Sarah. "Are you like his partner or something? Do you use your medical degree to tell him all about the bodies and then he pieces the puzzle together?"

Her questions seemed much more transparent now. John pressed his lips together again to try to reel back his expression – he felt like he was screaming inside and knew he wouldn't be able to hold out much longer here.

"Something like that," he said. "What time is it? I don't want to be late for my next meeting –"

"It's almost eleven," said Sarah with a glance at her computer.

"I should probably go," John said. "I'll talk to you later, yeah?" Sarah nodded and John tried not to run away. Sarah would clearly see him and possibly hear him if he went straight to Sherlock, but Sherlock needed to be warned immediately. Elise had just been shot twice in an alley three streets from Sherlock's flat – if eliminated meant truly eliminated, he wasn't safe sitting just one row away from someone directly involved.

John returned to his computer and sent Sherlock a text.

_Are you at your desk?_

_In the lab. SH_

John let out a deep breath at his fortune. He could go to the lab under the pretext of his next meeting (not like Sarah would ask where he was going, though) and they could find somewhere else to hide. Mycroft would probably know best. John wondered as he waited for the lift if he should try Mycroft now, put the plan in motion right away, but the lift came quickly and John was able to make it into the lab in record time.

"Sherlock," said John quietly. The lab was large – it probably took up most of the floor – but they were not alone. "Sherlock, someone's trying to kill you."

"Really?" Sherlock asked without even looking up from his microscope.

"Did you not just hear me? Listen, I was upstairs sitting with Sarah and she got an email –"

"From Renee Finch?" Sherlock asked. John took a physical step back in surprise and before he could stop himself his voice had raised to anger levels.

"What? You knew?"

"Yes, I've been monitoring their emails for months," said Sherlock and he held up his mobile to emphasize his point. "It's mostly drivel but occasionally you get something useful. Sarah is Renee's contact at Venture."

John looked around the lab again to ensure their conversation would not be overheard. The nearest employee was several meters away but John lowered his voice again.

"And who exactly is Renee Finch?"

"She's the Tokyo kingpin. She runs the business that benefits from D'Angelis's crops."

"Jesus, Sherlock, how long have you known this?"

"Renee Finch is the reason I took this position at Venture ten months ago," said Sherlock and he finally decided to look up from his microscope. When he looked at John's face he let out a tsk of exasperation. "Come, John, it's nothing to get worked up over. I am, however, quite surprised it took you this long to figure out Sarah's involved. No one would flirt that much for that long without an ulterior motive."

"No, Sherlock, I just assumed she liked me." Sherlock tsk'd again. "And yet I get defensive when people tell me to stay away from you. You knew for ten months that there was an illegal international drug smuggling ring operating out of this office and you never once thought it was important to inform me?"

"I told you what was most important for you to know. We've identified the buyer. Elise Beauchamp is dead. D'Angelis is in prison. I think it's time we pay a visit to Japan."

"Well you were apparently there last week," said John.

"Yes, but this time you are coming with me." John pressed his hand to his temple for he suddenly was getting a very large headache.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock insisted that apart from Sarah, their forthcoming trip to Japan required absolute secrecy. John was not to cancel any of his appointments nor was he to tell his wife. Sarah needed to know because she needed to be able to feed the information back to Renee Finch, who would ensure to stay in the Tokyo area to meet Sherlock and John in person. Sherlock had foiled her largest shipment to date and had her supplier arrested; Sherlock also had identified Sebastian Moran as a key player. The pieces were placed for a tête-a-tête.

Sherlock was sitting at his desk when John returned the copy of _Giovanni's Room_ that Sherlock leant him in the hope that it would explain some of Sherlock's resistance to being so open with his feelings. John was becoming more open with his declarations, only punctuated again by the paragraph he chose to illustrate when he returned it:

_I was guilty and irritated and full of love and pain. I wanted to kick him and I wanted to take him in my arms._

Sherlock stared at the passage for considerably longer than necessary after John left. The words were painful but true and so very John. John, who loved Sherlock in a burning, eternal sort of way. John, who remained married to a woman out of convenience. Sherlock had not asked John to stay and had not asked John to divorce. John, who first fell in love with a man in the army and had to adjust to new feelings and experiences while keeping everything a secret. John, who had to give up his army life because of an irrelevant shoulder injury and a career-ending hand tremor caused by anxiety. Sherlock knew exactly who John was the first time they met and vowed in that moment to give John the life he could not give himself, one full of excitement, mystery, and love. Sherlock had at least upheld two thirds of his vow.

Sherlock stared, lost in his thoughts, until he heard Sarah and John speaking on the other side of the wall. Sherlock could have worked full time in the lab, which would have been preferable, but the open desk just a few feet from a key operative in the mission was ultimately the most logical decision. Sherlock was able to produce two highly creative and highly profitable designs within his first month of employment which gave him considerable leeway in the company to do what he pleased. As long he continued to produce something of quality every few weeks after that, he was able to disappear for days on end while chasing down a suspect or a lead without much consequence. Any consequence that did occur was handled promptly by Mycroft, but Sherlock was loathe to include his brother.

"Did you talk to Sherlock yet about why he went to Japan?" Sarah asked in a very casual manner, but now that John knew her motive, he did not respond as flirtatiously as he did in the beginning of their acquaintance.

"Yeah, he's investigating something over there," said John. "Not sure what."

"Investigating? You mean he might go back?"

"It's highly likely he will," said John. "Actually, it's highly likely I will too."

Sherlock frowned at John's lack of subtlety, but it seemed to work with Sarah.

"Really? You've been promoted to International Investigation Partner, then?"

"Something like that," said John. "I'm not entirely sure when we're going but he says he's got a lead on someone over there, so I'm sure any day now we'll pop off to Japan and have a look around. Honestly, I don't really know what I'm doing here. I just wait for someone to get injured or die and provide my expertise."

"Well hopefully no one dies on your trip to Japan," said Sarah.

"Don't spread it around," said John with a horrible attempt to lower his voice. "It is kind of a secret international investigation, you know."

"Oh, who am I going to tell?" laughed Sarah and John laughed as well before he found an excuse to leave. Sherlock typed a quick message to John after his footsteps returned him to his desk.

_Nice work. SH_

_Please just never make me talk to her again. I thought she actually liked me and here she was just using me to get to you._

Sherlock began to type _I like you_ but then thought the better of it, deleted it, and didn't communicate further with John. He needed to secure a plane to Japan.

***

"Want to grab lunch?" Greg asked John at eleven forty five. John, who had been staring at the time for the last fourteen minutes, counting each one down until it was an acceptable time to eat lunch, happily agreed. "I was just planning to go to the canteen unless you wanted to go out."

"No, canteen is fine," said John.

The food served in the canteen at Venture left much to be desired, but when it was cold outside or there wasn't much time, it served its purpose. Greg and John opted to go the safe route by picking up sandwiches and then sat in a booth next to the window overlooking Venture's rarely used atrium. John had just taken an enormous bite of his sandwich when Greg spoke up again.

"So Mycroft tells me you're going to Japan," said Greg.

John chewed for what felt like an obnoxiously long time before he could respond, and the words that came out of his mouth sounded more like a malediction than a confirmation. "Sherlock said we needed to keep it a secret."

"How do you expect to get to Tokyo with an unlicensed firearm without Mycroft's help? Of course Mycroft knows, and because it concerns you, of course I know. He's worried about you, you know. Worried you're becoming too involved. A day trip to France is one thing –"

"Worried I'm becoming too involved?" John repeated. "Greg, you can spare me this conversation. I've already had it with Mycroft and it was simultaneously unnecessary, annoying, and terrifying." Greg smiled a bit.

"Terrifying?"

"Yes, I find Mycroft to be a bit terrifying. Don't you?"

"Not really," said Greg, "but then again I share a bed with him. Well, I usually share a bed with him. I sometimes share a bed with him." The bitterness in Greg's voice was quite evident. John, although still hungry, let go of his sandwich and sat back in the booth to give Greg his full attention.

"How's it going? You and Mycroft."

"It's fine," said Greg as usual, but then just as quickly as he dismissed everything to be fine, he began to speak at length at what had been boiling under the surface for the duration of John's acquaintance with him. "It's just – it was our anniversary last week. It made me think a lot about what we've done over the last year. He doesn't really care about these things and usually neither do I. Birthdays have never been all that important. If there's something I know he wants I'll buy it for him but it's never a big deal. We don't go on holiday or buy cards and all that. But this was our first wedding anniversary. I felt like it should have meant something. Anything. I suppose I should have known better by how we ended up getting married."

"How did you end up getting married?" John asked. "Did you ask him or did he ask you?"

"He asked me," said Greg.

"Really?"

"Don't kid yourself, John. He literally said 'I think it would make logical sense if we were to be married' and then we drove over to the courthouse and signed the papers in front of the two registrars. There was no one there. No pomp and circumstance. There wouldn't have even been rings if I hadn't suggested it." Greg fiddled with the ring on his left hand. "Why do we put up with this, John?"

John did not want to bring himself into the conversation but knew that sooner or later Sherlock would be included. John glanced around the canteen but luckily there was no one nearby and Greg was smart enough to keep his voice down.

"Why do we put up with taciturn idiots?" continued Greg. "We were married to make it legal. So I could make medical decisions if he were unconscious or for tax purposes or whatever. There was no love involved in it at all. I wanted to kiss him at the registrar's office after we signed the paperwork but he wouldn't. I had to pick out his ring for him because he was on the phone with an important person in the government that couldn't possibly wait until after we'd paid for the symbols of our love and devotion to each other."

"But you did buy him a ring, didn't you?" John asked. "I've seen him wearing it."

"Yeah, he wears it."

"He doesn't have to, Greg. He might not have wanted to buy a ring but you picked one out for him, you gave it to him, and he wears it every day. It's not necessary for him to wear a visible, outward sign of his love for you."

"But is it even that? Sherlock must be the same way." John did not reply but Greg did not give him much room to respond. "I don't think they're the kind of people who are capable of loving another human being. Caring is not an advantage. He said that to me on our first date."

"We have to realize we're talking about Mycroft Holmes here," said John. "He's a very unique individual. Interpersonal relationships, real ones with real people, are not his forte. I'm sure he was a rubbish first date…but if Mycroft could care about anybody, it would be you."

"But is he even capable of that? Does he even care about me? Does he even care about anybody? What am I doing with somebody who is incapable of understanding the importance of caring about each other? The importance of two people and how they work well together and how they need to love and respect each other, but most importantly love each other? I completely respect him and he completely respects me, but does he really care at all?"

"Of course he cares. He just has a different way of showing it. He's not like most people. Neither of them are like most people. You just have to look for it differently."

"I don't know," said Greg. "I don't think he can. He's a very mechanical person. He doesn't respond to his overwhelming love for me, he responds to a physical reaction to an external stimulus. I walk out of the shower and my hair is wet and he responds to it. Everything about it is mechanical. It's physical. If it's unnecessary he doesn't want to do it. He leaves his clothes on until the last moment and gets redressed immediately. He doesn't want to hold hands and doesn't want to touch or kiss for the pleasure of it."

"Greg," said John mostly because he did not want to get into the mechanics of what Greg and Mycroft did with each other, "You knew when you got into this. We both knew when we got into this. It is a very difficult to be in love with a distant man, but would you ever leave him?"

"Absolutely not."

"Why not?" John asked. "Can you imagine the rest of your life being with someone who is like this?"

"I can't imagine being without him. He is everything to me and I love him despite his inability to love me back. If anything he would have to be the one to leave because I care about him too much."

"Well there you go," said John. "You just need to see it for what it is. He loves you. He cares about you. He just says it a different way."

Greg thought about this as he looked at his mostly uneaten sandwich in front of him. John did the same.

"Well," said Greg, "that got much more serious than I intended."

"Indeed," said John. "Can I eat my sandwich now?" Greg nodded and they ate the rest of their meal in silence.


	12. Chapter 12

Mycroft refused to secure a private jet all the way to Japan, so John and Sherlock had to board a commercial flight to Tokyo. They were still given several allowances that most travelers did not benefit from, including seats in first class and the ability for John to carry his gun on board. Sherlock told John that it was fortunate just in case the plane were to be hijacked, and John hit Sherlock with his book in order to get him to shut up.

"What did you tell Mary?" Sherlock asked not long after they reached cruising altitude.

"Same as always," replied John. "There's a case. I'll be back when it's over."

"Is she worried you'll lose your job?" John looked over at Sherlock because Sherlock already knew the answer and asked only to make conversation.

"Mary is always worried I'll lose my job. Can we not? I don't want to hear her name for the rest of our trip." John opened his book and realized he was not the least bit interested in it. He looked to his right at Sherlock, who sat in his thinking pose. The flight to Tokyo was twelve hours; John had personally witnessed Sherlock in a twelve-hour-long thinkathon so he knew conversation would have to occur now before Sherlock dived too deep into his mind palace.

"Will you please explain this case to me?" John asked. "I think if I agreed to spend an unlimited amount of time with you in a country literally on the opposite side of the world –"

"New Zealand is the opposite side of the world."

John paused. "What? New Zealand is in the southern hemisphere."

"Exactly. If you were to dig through the center of the earth – neglecting the bit about air pressure, oxygen levels, being burned to death by the magma in the Earth's core, and of course gravity working against you once you've burrowed through the center – you would arrive somewhere in the ocean outside of New Zealand."

"But I meant the opposite of the world. Not if I dug through the world. Japan is roughly on the opposite side of the world from us."

"Yes and about fifteen hundred kilometers south. Not really on the opposite –"

"It's roughly the opposite!" John said loudly. "Please just tell me about the case before I have to murder you. We're not even an hour in."

"Fine," said Sherlock, but he kept his voice low. The sound of the engine and the sparse attendance in the first class cabin made it unnecessary, but John appreciated the excuse to lean into Sherlock's personal space. "Japan has some of the strictest laws in the world regarding marijuana. Possession can land you in jail for multiple years on a first offense. The laws regarding production, distribution, and solicitation are worse. So not only is it incredibly difficult to grow it, it is also incredibly difficult to buy it. The consequences are severe and thus it is incredibly expensive to purchase. Japan also has a considerable aging population and, despite the cultural stigma toward the drug, it is becoming increasingly popular amongst that demographic due to its medicinal properties – although it is still illegal to use it for medicinal purposes."

"Wait, wait, wait," said John when Sherlock finally took a breath. "Are you seriously telling me that your life is in danger, we are flying halfway across the world, because some old people want to smoke pot?"

"Yes," replied Sherlock.

"Right, just so we're clear. Continue."

"So our buyer, Sebastian Moran, works with Renee Finch to supply the aging population with the drug. Renee Finch is the facilitator of the distribution in Tokyo and operates a multi-million dollar business. I have yet to discover why Moran and Finch work together, but I discovered their connection during my last visit. I think by making ourselves known and drawing them to us, we can be in a position to ask the right questions to discover how they are connected."

"And where does Venture come in?"

"Renee is the head of Venture's pharmaceutical division. She, a Tokyo native, was able to develop a plan to ship the product to Japan with the pretense that they are just standard chemicals. One of the UK's largest exports to Japan is pharmaceuticals. France has considerably looser laws regarding marijuana production so she is able to coordinate the transport between D'Angelis in Aurillac and her warehouse in Ichihara."

"Wow, so Renee is basically a drug lord, albeit a drug lord transporting a substance that is legal in several countries and giving it to the elderly who want it for glaucoma and joint pain."

"Pretty much, yes," said Sherlock.

"She is by far the lamest drug lord in the world."

"Perhaps, but don't underestimate her, John. She is incredibly powerful and is supported by incredibly dangerous people. It will not be simple to bring her to justice."

"Do we really want to bring her to justice?" John asked. "She's not doing that much harm."

"You forget that Elise Beauchamp is dead," said Sherlock. "That is the only one we know about. Renee is a drug lord and runs her business like a cartel. There is no good coming from this."

Sherlock returned to his thinking posture and John considered the conversation over. The proximity to Sherlock, however, was increasingly intoxicating and John did not realize he was staring at Sherlock's defined jawline and pronounced cheekbones until Sherlock's green eyes flickered over to him.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing," replied John. He returned to his side of the armrest and opened is book again, his jeans feeling uncomfortably tight for reasons apart from the gun tucked in the waistband. They were not alone. It was going to be a long flight.

***

Despite his nap on the plane, John was exhausted when they landed in Tokyo. It was nine thirty in the morning and John just wanted to go to sleep. Sherlock, on the other hand, looked fresh and presentable in his navy suit. John wished for Sherlock's ability to be able to go without food and sleep for several days and still run on optimal brain function.

They travelled by cab to the hotel but, once they arrived, Sherlock looked up and down at the building and insisted that it was entirely too touristy for their mission and they would be easily spotted. John groaned when Sherlock relocated them to another building in what John assumed was Ichihara.

Ichihara was located in one of Tokyo's nearby industrial regions, but John would not have known they were anywhere near Tokyo based on the route the driver took. The road became heavily wooded with fall-colored trees expanding over rolling hills. John stared out the window at the passing of red and orange and yellow leaves that occasionally fell blissfully onto the road. When they passed over a bridge overlooking a long drop into a river below, John was able to see deep into the woods at all of the bright colors.

The scenery turned industrial just as suddenly as it had turned into expansive forests, and within a few minutes the driver let them out at a tall building surrounded by other, lower warehouses. Sherlock seemed satisfied here. It was definitely not a tourist location, not with the identical gray buildings and the smokestacks of white clouds.

John carried the bags into the building. There was indeed a hotel there, decorated comfortably but not nearly as nicely as their original destination. They were not in Japan to be pampered, and even if they had stayed in the first hotel John would not have had time to enjoy the amenities, but he was positive the hotel staff would have been ridiculously polite and the room would have had a perfect view of the city.

Their room was adequate but unimpressive. There was one bed just big enough for the two of them and a small adjoining bathroom. John felt the best course of action would be a shower and another nap, but Sherlock had already begun to peer out of a crack in the curtains over the windows. John stepped up behind him and peered the best he could over Sherlock's shoulder, since Sherlock's shoulder was higher than John's eye level.

"What are you looking at?"

"We're just two streets from Renee's warehouse. I can see the parking lot and the main entrance, but only just." Sherlock stepped away from the window so John could look. Sherlock pointed at the warehouse, which looked undistinguishable from the neighboring warehouses, but beyond the warehouse John could see the river that ran through Ichihara.

"The shipments can run through Tokyo Bay and up this river right to the warehouse. There's no need for extra hands to transport merchandise from one boat to another or from the boat to a truck. Too much room for error and too many people to pay off. She'll have eliminated as many steps as possible to ensure that she knows exactly who handles the product."

John stepped away from the window. He began to stare at Sherlock as Sherlock stared at the warehouse. The sun peered through the opening in the window, illuminating the side of Sherlock's face, including the jawline and cheekbone John had been admiring earlier on the plane. The only sign of travel fatigue from the long journey from London was in Sherlock's hair. The curls were ordinarily shaped in a specific style, but now that it had been so long since Sherlock had showered or fixed his hair in a mirror, the curls along his forehead and the sides of his face began to spiral out of control. It made him look wild and irrefutably desirable.

"Do you think Moran is here?" John asked to try to distract himself from his thoughts of creating rumples in the crisp lines of Sherlock's suit, "or do you think he would have gone back to London by now? He's from London, isn't he?"

"He's Irish," said Sherlock, "but based primarily in London, yes. I do think he's here though. He knows we are responsible for the destruction of their last shipment and he would know by now that we're in town. Sarah would have told Renee and Renee would have told Moran."

"So do you think he was just her buyer?" John asked.

"No, he is definitely more than just a buyer. His history suggests he's a man for hire but his attire and attitude states he's bigger than just that. He has connections."

"Well someone like Renee would need connections," said John. "She's the head of a pharmaceutical division at an engineering company. If you say she needs to pay off all these people to smuggle drugs between two countries she doesn't live in, then she would need –"

"Someone who had a network big enough to transport thousands of kilos of marijuana under the guise that they're just regular chemicals. John, you are absolutely brilliant."

"You really did all of the thinking, I just…" Sherlock turned from the curtain, placed his hands on either side of John's face, and kissed him. John responded immediately but still remained astonished that Sherlock had initiated the move at all. When Sherlock let go, John said, "Well, okay. I'm brilliant."

"You are," said Sherlock and his hands moved to the waist of John's jumper and began to pull it up. "You are brilliant, and shining, and luminous." After his jumper and shirt left his body John's lips turned upward into an uncontrollable smile.

"Feel free to keep going," said John, but Sherlock misinterpreted and instead of continuing to compliment John, he pressed his lips to John's again and began to walk him backward to the bed. John pushed Sherlock's suit coat off his shoulders. Sherlock caught it, still kissing John, before it fell to the floor and tossed it onto the table. John began to unbutton Sherlock's gray shirt and was halfway down his lean but muscular chest when the phone rang.

Sherlock stopped kissing John immediately.

"No," said John when Sherlock pulled away. "Don't answer it. It's probably just the front desk making sure we have enough towels or whatever. Come back here."

Sherlock didn't even look at John when he picked up the phone. John stared at the muscles in Sherlock's back underneath his tight dress shirt so he saw them tense when the other participant on the phone call spoke. "Excellent," said Sherlock. "When? Perfect, we'll be there." Sherlock hung up the phone and John's shoulders slumped forward in disappointment. "Fantastic news. D'Angelis was cleared of his charges and is en route to Tokyo with another shipment. He'll be here at sunset. This network is bigger than we thought, John, if he was not even indicted on charges with foolproof evidence."

"Yeah, must be," said John.

"Don't look so disappointed. We can continue the date and then figure out our next move afterward."

John felt his entire body tense at Sherlock's words. It began between his shoulder blades and spread outward to his arms, his abdomen, his legs, down to his fingers and toes. He set his jaw in a tight almost-smile that caused Sherlock to take a step back toward the phone.

"Continue the date?" John asked. "Continue the date, Sherlock? I'm not a john, I'm your John. What the hell does this mean to you?"

"That's not what I meant," said Sherlock.

"You know every single word that leaves your mouth, Sherlock, and you mean everything that you say."

"Well regardless, let's continue anyway. You know you won't be able to concentrate unless you achieve an orgasm and I need you in top form."

John's mouth set further as his fury began to grow, but even despite Sherlock's careless terminology and usual lack of regard for John's feelings, he was correct. John had been staring at Sherlock for the better part of twelve hours and despite the phone call and Sherlock's mouth, John remained ridiculously hard.

"Fine," said John, "but we're doing it my way. We're doing this in the bed, under the covers, and you will look in my eyes while I'm inside of you and you will remember why we do this, and why it's important."

Sherlock wordlessly removed his shirt and shoes before he approached John and kissed him again. The action began to relieve the tension in John's face and neck, but it didn't completely ebb away from his body. He was too much in his head so he directed Sherlock into the bed. John released his mouth and began to kiss across his cheek toward his neck; Sherlock tensed as soon as John touched his neck, but John let go and looked in Sherlock's eyes.

"No, my way," said John, but then realized the severity of his words and softened immediately. "Okay, love?" Sherlock nodded and turned his head to expose his neck. John returned his lips there and Sherlock allowed John to trace his lips down his neck, over his chest, and into the center crease of Sherlock's stomach. Once at the waist of Sherlock's trousers, John began to unfasten them and slowly worked them down and off of Sherlock's body. John trailed his lips up Sherlock's slender leg, to the inside of his thigh and upward to the juncture between Sherlock's legs. Sherlock was only half hard at this point so John carefully took Sherlock in his hand and began to stroke at his length, his eyes drifting upward to meet Sherlock's. "Are you okay?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock breathed. His eyes changed color as his desire increased and John, now feeling more at ease, stroked downward on Sherlock's hardening cock to expose the head. John leant forward, still looking Sherlock's eyes, and took the head of Sherlock's cock into his mouth. Sherlock's entire body tensed momentarily before he breathed out a loud, unbridled moan and placed one of his hands on John's head. John would have smiled if he could with Sherlock in his mouth and bobbed up and down several times until Sherlock was completely erect. John let go with a wet pop and kissed the side of Sherlock's cock before he moved back upward and kissed Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock never took much control in these situations and usually let John have his way with him, so when Sherlock threw a packet of lube at John from inside his discarded trousers and placed John's hand between Sherlock's legs, John did actually smile. John lubricated his fingers before pressing one inside of Sherlock, and Sherlock sighed contentedly before he spread his legs open farther. John diligently prepared him while looking over Sherlock's face. Sherlock was lost in pleasure but did occasionally look at John, and when he did John attempted to memorize the expression on his face. If John could ever figure out how to create his own mind palace, it would be full of these expressions.

"John," said Sherlock with the admiration that could only come from somewhere deep inside the walls that he had built so thick and so high. "Please."

"Okay, love," said John. John extracted his fingers from Sherlock and adjusted his body in between Sherlock's legs. John looked over Sherlock's pale, naked skin and his throbbing, erect cock before John tilted Sherlock's hip upward and pressed himself inside. Once aligned properly, John let go of himself, placed both of his arms on the pillow on either side of Sherlock, and gently cradled Sherlock's head with his hands. John could feel the soft silk of Sherlock's curls in his fingers but, more importantly, could direct Sherlock's gaze to his.

John was sheathed to the hilt. He paused there, completely connected to Sherlock, and Sherlock wrapped his legs around John's waist and crossed his ankles, pulling John in as deep as he possibly could go. "I love you," said John with all sincerity. "I don't need you to say it back. I just need you to know that I love you."

Sherlock nodded gently and John could feel it under his fingers more than he could see it.

John drew his hips back and pulled out of Sherlock and then drove back in. Sherlock's entire body shifted on the bed when he took the thrust; John could feel it in his hands as Sherlock's head moved under him. There they remained, staring at each other at a comfortable distance, not too far to lose the comfortable eye contact, not too close to cause double-vision. John wanted to cry at the intimacy he felt in that moment, making love to Sherlock in a steady rhythm, feeling Sherlock's body ebb and flow with the current.

Sherlock could sense when John began to near completion and took himself in his hand to aid himself along. John wanted to watch – Sherlock touching himself was a beautiful sight – but the expression in Sherlock's eyes, the open emotion in there, was too mesmerizing to lose. Sherlock stroked himself in rhythm with John, and John finally broke eye contact when his eyes closed and he came while buried deep within his lover. John did not pull out while Sherlock stroked himself off, and a few moments later John felt the warm streams hitting his stomach, felt Sherlock release his deep breath.

John removed his hands from under Sherlock's head and began to gently brush at Sherlock's curls that lay over his forehead and cheeks, and slowly began to soften inside of Sherlock. Sherlock stared back at him, silent, and moment by moment John began to see the bricks that built Sherlock's walls as he mortared them higher and higher until there was no room for John. John pulled out and lay next to Sherlock in the bed.

Sherlock was out of the bed in a flash and back at the curtain. In his desperation to return to the case he did not even redress. John looked over at him across the room, completely naked and peering out the window to the warehouse two streets away. It could easily be a beautiful sight – Sherlock was a beautiful man. His back was muscular, obviously strong, but compact and lean. His arse curved in just the right angle; not too much and not too little. His entire form was perfection, but it was a form dedicated to something else. John had been inside of him not sixty seconds prior, but there he stood, as far away from John as he could be.

"What are we doing here?" John asked.

"Surveillance, I told you," said Sherlock. All of the breathy appreciation from their lovemaking had gone from his deep voice.

"No, Sherlock. What is this? Between you and me?" Sherlock did not even look back at him as he continued to peruse the outdoors with his eyes in quick staccato scans, taking in all of the information that could possibly present itself within the limitations of human eyesight. He did at least give his head a cursory tic to show he was somewhat participating in this conversation.

"What did you expect this to be, John? I have expressed to you in numerous ways that I value the warmth and constancy of your companionship throughout the duration of our acquaintance, but I am not the type of person to doll out platitudes with little regard. Your role in the work is invaluable and our comradery is easy, however there is only so far that we can go when you are and continue to be wed."

John could feel the tension return to his body, but not the wonderful tension that usually emerged when he was alone with Sherlock. They had been together like this for months and not once had the subject of John's marriage to Mary come up in conversation. Sherlock had met Mary, had liked Mary, and often inquired about Mary, but never before spoke of her as an obstacle in the way of true intimacy.

"I'd like to remind you that you were the one who tore off my clothes twenty minutes ago and shoved your tongue down my throat. If my marriage is such a problem, why would you initiate that kind of thing?"

"Please, John, we both know that you have been desperate to get inside my trousers since we boarded the plane. This is the first time we've been alone and had I not initiated 'that kind of thing,' you certainly would have before we ventured the streets of Ichihara." Sherlock fell silent – but not the type of silence that required a reply, but instead a thick, pointed silence that John knew all too well – Sherlock needed to think, and John's prattling was nothing but an interruption.

John left the bed and entered the bathroom. He turned on the water and then closed the door behind him. When the door shut the room was little more than a sink, toilet, and shower, but there was a large enough mirror that John could truly look at his own face and ponder what he was doing here, ten thousand kilometers from home, assisting a man who did not need his help, cheating on his wife, and risking his life and his job. Sometimes John would look at Sherlock and know everything he needed to know in his life. He knew why he was with this man and that, in the end, Sherlock cared about him.

But this was a different moment. John stood alone in a bathroom, stared at his slowly fogging reflection, and wondered if Greg was right. Was Sherlock even capable of that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you only came for the smut, here's your chance to exit now. That's the last of it. For the rest of you, continue on.


	13. Chapter 13

There was no point in trying to stop the shipment from happening. Unlike in Aurillac, this exchange involved more people in a more public area. Sherlock and John were able to see most of it from the hotel window but definitely did not have the upper hand to be able to thwart the deal. The goal was very clear; find a way to get to D'Angelis and pump him for information. Was Renee in town? Was Moran in town? Did they really work together in the way that Sherlock and John thought they did? How did they get the evidence to have Renee and Moran arrested and imprisoned for life? If Moran was as connected as he needed to be to pull off an operation as major as this one, how did they ensure that he was convicted?

It was beginning to get dark when the workers finished unloading the boat. Sherlock and John stood next to each in other at the window with binoculars. They kept the room dark on purpose so as not to attract attention. Sherlock watched D'Angelis and the workers while John searched everywhere else for someone who might also be watching them.

"It's done," Sherlock said suddenly. John immediately brought his binoculars back to the warehouse to see the workers either returning to the boat or carting the last of the boxes inside. "D'Angelis isn't returning to the boat. It's getting dark; he either has a house in the area or he's staying nearby. We should be able to follow him."

"What if he gets in a car and drives off? We took a cab here."

"There's a car downstairs for us," said Sherlock.

"When did that happen? You've been standing at the window since we got here."

"That was Mycroft on the phone earlier. He arranged for a car."

"Of course he did," said John quietly. Sherlock turned to him and John could feel how awkward Sherlock's next sentence would be before he began to speak it.

"Are you still angry? We don't have time to squabble about feelings right now. There's work to be done."

"I know there's work to be done," John spat much more bitterly than necessary. "There's always work to be done. I will follow you and I will do whatever you want me to do, but don't expect me to happy about it right now. Let's just finish this so we can go home and have a proper conversation about feelings."

It was a conversation John knew would not happen, but it seemed to satisfy Sherlock. Sherlock handed John his coat and gun. John took both and followed Sherlock out the door. They proceeded to the street where a black car with tinted windows – very similar to the cars Mycroft employed in London – waited for them just in front of the hotel. Sherlock sat behind the wheel and John next to him in the front seat. Sherlock never took his eyes off the street that led to the warehouse. Five minutes after they sat down, a car pulled out of the warehouse and headed in their direction.

"Is that him?" John asked.

They didn't need to check. When the car turned onto their street D'Angelis clearly sat in the back seat, escorted by his driver and no one else. Sherlock allowed them plenty of distance before he started the car and followed.

"There's a driver," said John.

"Yes," said Sherlock.

"Do you have a plan for him?" John asked. "If you just say we're going to kill him then we are no better than any of these people we are supposedly bringing to justice."

"No, we'll wait for the driver to drop D'Angelis off. It's far more likely that D'Angelis will be staying in a hotel. He's French, not Japanese, and apart from his partnership with Renee, all of his clients are local. He does not have contacts here and they do not trust each other enough to arrange shelter, especially not after what happened with us in Aurillac. He'll be guarded but not heavily. We should be able to either apprehend him before he gets into his hotel room or strategically take out his guards – temporarily take out his guards – and bring him to a location where we can question him under our terms."

"Your confidence in your abilities never ceases to amaze me," said John only somewhat sarcastically. Sherlock cracked a smile but it disappeared just as quickly as it appeared. Sherlock followed the car all the way to their original hotel. "Maybe we should have stayed here," John said when the car pulled into the hotel's porte cochère and stopped in front of the double doors.

"Did you cancel our reservation?" Sherlock asked.

"I didn't set it up. Did you cancel it?"

"No," said Sherlock. "We'll check in and plan our next move." Sherlock passed the hotel and drove out of the way for several minutes to avoid an awkward and potentially dangerous situation if they walked into the hotel lobby with D'Angelis still present, and then returned to the hotel. Sherlock handed his keys to a valet after he took a computer bag from the trunk.

"I've got it," said Sherlock to a bellhop who approached the car to help with the bag. John and Sherlock entered the lobby of the hotel and John sighed at the sight of it. Their current lodging did the job just fine, and the bed was comfortable enough with both of them in it, but it was clearly not a hotel meant for anything other than travelling industrialists. There was no homey décor or accommodations. The lobby of this hotel, while still relatively small, felt like it offered so much more than a place to sleep for the night.

"Is it too late to just stay here instead?" John asked.

"John, our current lodgings are perfectly adequate and give us a direct view to the warehouse. We are only here for one reason." John frowned and let Sherlock take care of the check-in. Sherlock seemed to know basic Japanese phrases, but the conversation took place mostly in English. Once they received their keys, they travelled to the top floor and to their room. There were very few rooms on the top floor and when Sherlock opened the door, John understood why.

"Are you sure we can't stay here instead?" John asked at the sight of the room. The suite was broken into a living room, bedroom, and bathroom. The living room had plush white couches and a large flat screen mounted to the wall. Behind the couches the expansive windows overlooked a few other buildings but mostly the bay, although it was difficult to see much of it at this time of night. John headed directly to the bedroom to find the largest bed he'd ever seen. Sherlock entered the bedroom behind John and John turned around to complain.

"After, John," said Sherlock. "Once we finish this, we can take a day and stay here." John nodded, satisfied with Sherlock's compromise, but still gazed longingly at the bed. He was still incredibly exhausted.

Sherlock sat at the table in the living room and turned on his computer. "What are you doing?" John asked. John elected to sit on the couch, unsure of when he'd get the next opportunity to do so. The couch sunk perfectly underneath his weight and he felt as if he were sitting on a cloud rather than white cushions.

"I'm hacking the hotel's database to find out which room belongs to D'Angelis. It's possible the reservation is under a different name, but I'm positive he'll be on this floor. These are the nicest accommodations on this side of the bay; a man of his stature will want to see the water."

"So he's on our side of the hotel? I didn't see a single guard in the hallway."

"Even better," said Sherlock.

John watched as Sherlock easily accessed the hotel's files. It was less than minute before he said "Ah!" and pulled a card scanner from inside the computer bag. He took the second keycard from his pocket and ran it through the scanner twice. "Are you ready?"

"Ready? For what?" John asked.

"He's two doors over and we have access to his room," said Sherlock and gestured to the left with the card in his hand.

"Did you seriously just do that? You can just create a keycard for any room in this hotel with a computer and a scanner?"

"Yes," said Sherlock.

"That does not make me feel safe at all. Anyone can just barge into our hotel room whenever they want as long as they have the right technology to do so."

"Anyone can do anything with the right technology, John," said Sherlock. "D'Angelis may very well have the door bolted, so we still may need force to get inside. Just because there aren't guards outside his door right now does not mean he is alone in his room. You have your gun, correct?" John nodded. "Good. Under no circumstances are you to kill him."

"What if he tries to kill me?"

"Then incapacitate him. I need him to be able to answer my questions," said Sherlock and he stood. He buttoned his suit jacket and then turned to John again, a pensive look on the striking features of his face. "I suppose, if necessary, you could kill him after he answers my questions."

"Let's just hope I don't have to kill anyone," said John. "All right, let's go."

Sherlock opened the door to the hallway first and peered to the left. Satisfied with his surroundings, he headed toward the door, John close behind, holding his gun steady in both hands. Sherlock stopped just before the door, pressed against the wall, and nodded John forward. John quickly but silently crossed to the other side. Once in position to potentially kick the door open if necessary, he nodded to Sherlock. Sherlock inserted the keycard and the lock turned green to accept it.

John quickly turned the handle and pushed. The door opened easily. He did kick the door open to ensure a better grip on his gun and forcefully entered the living room of D'Angelis's suite.

Two guards in suits stood on either side of the white couch, but neither had a weapon in hand when John aimed at them. With one quick shot to both he sent them backward onto the ground. Sherlock, unarmed but now on a level playing field, entered the suite and took the weapon from each guard. Neither were dead but lay writhing on the floor. There was no time for anything else. John pressed his gun into D'Angelis's temple and forced him off the couch.

Now armed, Sherlock pushed D'Angelis forward with a gun to the back. "Allons-y! Allons-y! Maintenant!" D'Angelis struggled against them but John hit him in the head with the butt of his gun, not enough to leave him unconscious, but enough to send a message. D'Angelis no longer struggled as they forced him out of the room and toward the emergency exit.

The service elevator was in the emergency exit stairwell. Sherlock called for the elevator but D'Angelis would not stop spewing loud, attention-seeking insults at them. John stuffed his handkerchief in D'Angelis's mouth, deep enough that he could not easily spit it out. John had both of D'Angelis's hands in one of his own and held them there tightly. Sherlock should have brought handcuffs.

They forced D'Angelis into the empty elevator and they travelled to the parking garage in the basement. They did not risk trying to find Mycroft's car. Sherlock was able to unlock the nearest car to the elevator and shoved D'Angelis into the trunk. Sherlock, without permission, took off John's belt and tied it securely around D'Angelis's hands before he closed the trunk.

"That went better than expected," said John.

"You did have two shoot two people," replied Sherlock. He jimmied open the driver's side door and then unlocked the rest of the doors for John. John entered the car and watched as Sherlock proceeded to use the wiring to start the engine.

"And we had to steal a car." Sherlock glanced around at the interior of the car.

"Businessman from Osaka. Lives alone. Has insurance. The car is old and not well cared for. No significant personal effects anywhere. He'll be better off for it."

"All right, then," said John. "Lead the way."

D'Angelis banged on the trunk's door the entire ride. John listened and realized he had never once been in this situation. In the army they'd arrested people, captured people, and rescued detainees, but never once had he needed to stuff someone into the trunk of a car and listen to him struggle for freedom. It was incredibly unsettling, even if they needed to question this man.

Sherlock drove to an empty warehouse on the other side of town from Renee Finch's warehouse. Instead of risking the slim chance that someone might see them force a man into the building, Sherlock exited the car and, after successfully breaking into the building, opened one of the loading bays and parked inside the warehouse. He closed the bay door before he opened the trunk. John grabbed zip ties from a nearby toolbox and they sat D'Angelis down and tied his wrists to the arms of the chair and his ankles to the front legs. D'Angelis breathed loudly, his large stomach expanding even further as he fumed in front of them, looking less and less like Father Christmas as the blood ran into his beard.

"There we go," said Sherlock politely. He removed the handkerchief from D'Angelis's mouth and attempted to return it to John, who simply shook his head. Sherlock dropped the handkerchief on the floor. "If you don't mind, Olivier, I'd like to have this conversation in English, since my colleague here is not as well versed au francais que vous et moi."

"I 'ave noting to say to you," said D'Angelis. "You are ze one who exploded my crop!"

"Yes," said Sherlock, "I'm sorry about that, but it needed to be done. There is not much information we need from you, Olivier, but I am prepared to take it by force." Sherlock extended the gun he seized from one of D'Angelis's guards. "Tell me – is Renee still in town?"

"Casse-toi!"

Sherlock shot D'Angelis in the leg and John quickly placed his hands behind his back to prevent himself from crying out against Sherlock's incredible overreaction. D'Angelis screamed and Sherlock raised the gun to point it at the old man's face.

"Is Renee still in town?"

"Oui," said D'Angelis.

"Wonderful! Where can we find her?"

"I don't know where she lives."

"Will she be at the factory?" D'Angelis whimpered again and Sherlock's face grew annoyed quickly. "Quit blubbering, I barely grazed you. You won't even need stitches. Will Renee be at the factory?"

"Not tonight," said D'Angelis and he continued to whimper. John looked at his leg and while he could see blood pooling in the man's sock, it appeared Sherlock was telling the truth regarding the severity of the wound. "She should be zere tomorrow. She is usually present when ze shipment is sorted. I do not leave town until she is satisfied."

"Perfect," said Sherlock. "Where is Moran?"

"Who?" asked D'Angelis.

"Sebastian Moran. The buyer you met in Aurillac. Where is he?"

"Je ne sais pas," said D'Angelis and Sherlock gestured to John with the gun. "I don't know Moran. I met him ze first time en Aurillac."

"Who is he?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know," said D'Angelis again.

"Deduce it for me," said Sherlock and D'Angelis's face clouded at the word he did not know. "Devinez pour moi."

"Un…a financer? A money man?"

"Guess better," said Sherlock. "He's not just the money."

"He is well connected. He works for – for someone else, I do not know who."

"So he's not the kingpin?" John asked.

"Non," said D'Angelis. "He is – what you say – hit man? Muscle?"

"Hmm," said Sherlock. "All right. That should be enough for now. I'm going to leave you here. If Renee is not at the warehouse tomorrow I will come back and shoot you between the eyes."

"Non, non, s'il vous plait! She will be zere!"

Sherlock did not reply as he returned to the bay door and opened it. He and John entered the car and drove away from the warehouse. John looked behind him when they entered the street.

"Aren't you going to close the bay door?" John asked.

"No, someone will find him," said Sherlock. "I don't want him to bleed out or die of shock."

"Sherlock," said John with a smile. "Look at you! That's very nice of you."

"Yes, very nice that I kidnapped a man, had him pistol-whipped, shot, and tied to a chair in an empty warehouse and decided not to let him die of fright."

"The Sherlock Holmes that took me on our first case seven months ago would have left them there to die." Sherlock looked over and John continued to beam at him. "Whether or not you like it, Sherlock, I think you're starting to be less of an asshole."

"Clearly I need to spend less time with you," said Sherlock but John continued to smile at him, and Sherlock allowed it.


	14. Chapter 14

That night, Sherlock dreamed.

He had not planned to sleep at all, however when he and John arrived back at the hotel near Renee's warehouse, the events of the past two days caught up with him. Despite his normal ability to control his unnecessary bodily urges, the flight was arduous, the surveillance draining, and the capture and questioning of D'Angelis surprisingly taxing. Sherlock knew better than to enter a dangerous situation without being prepared, but he had not brought a gun with him, and the situation could have ended very differently had either guard been closer to their weapon.

John had announced as soon as they entered the room that he was going to sleep, and asked Sherlock if he planned to join. Sherlock did, and they faced each other and fell asleep quickly; Sherlock's last thoughts were thankful that John could be there in the bed with him, both of them unharmed.

Those final thoughts before repose were probably what prompted the dream. Sherlock rarely dreamed even when he did sleep, but when he closed his eyes it was six months ago, a few weeks after he had met John Watson for the first time. John had asked if Sherlock wanted to go for a pint and Sherlock had a better idea.

"How would you like to investigate a murder?" Sherlock asked.

John's face had been startled but not in a negative way. Sherlock already knew from their daily interactions that John missed his life in Afghanistan, and that his incredibly boring job at Venture did nothing to aid his transition back to civilian life. Afghanistan provided John with frequent dangerous situations involving gunfire, strategy, and the medical care of many men who never returned home. Venture provided absolutely nothing.

John agreed to accompany Sherlock to the crime scene. A couple had been robbed and murdered in an alleyway in Chelsea, and while on the surface the case seemed to be like a mugging gone bad, several details captured Sherlock's attention. The woman's purse and the man's wallet were gone, but all of her jewelry remained and the man still had several coins in his pockets. There were no signs of struggle, which could have been due to terror, but the woman had very long nails and was positioned very close to her lover. None of her nails were broken and he had no signs of nail marks on his arms, suggesting she did not cling to him at all. There was minimal blood pooled beneath and around them although they had both been shot straight through.

"They weren't killed here," said John after Sherlock had him look at the exit wounds. "They're both incredibly exsanguinated but there's hardly any blood."

The daylight had ebbed already. John only had his phone but Sherlock had a torch, and they examined the area around them. No trail of blood either.

"It's not a narrow alley. Maybe they were in a car and dumped here?"

"No," said Sherlock, "I do agree they were dumped here, but I believe they carried. If whoever did this was smart enough to transport the bodies, they were smart enough to dispose of their tools elsewhere. Come on, John."

Sherlock darted through the alley and John followed. "What are you expecting to find?" John asked. "Those people have been dead for several hours and who knows how long they've been lying in that alley."

"This was a setup. The man is married, the woman is not. Did you notice his hand? Tan line where he normally keeps a ring. Her jewelry wasn't stolen so it's doubtful his was. A woman would not have been able to carry both bodies to the alleyway, so if the wife was involved in their death, she had help." John followed Sherlock to every skip he could find. They searched for a half hour until Sherlock opened the lid of a bin at the back of a house and pulled out a dark green tarp usually used for transporting yard waste.

"That proves nothing," said John and he glanced over his shoulder to the back porch of the house and the accompanying yard. "Maybe they bought a new tarp."

"Really, John? We're four streets away from the alley and someone just happens to decide in the middle of spring they're going to buy a new tarp? You buy a new tarp in autumn when you have to transport leaves." Sherlock began to look further in the bin for more evidence and realized much too late that turning his back to John had been a mistake. The woman's purse and the man's wallet were at the bottom of the bin, inside a bag amongst normal household rubbish. He knew it had been there as soon as he saw the tarp. He should not have turned his back to John.

"Drop the tarp and back away from the bins."

Sherlock turned around and his heart sank down into his stomach. It was still dark in the yard but the porch light provided everything he needed to see: a tall, fat man with a dirty vest and ill-fitting jeans had John pinned against him, his hand around John's mouth, a gun to John's temple. John was struggling against him but the hold was secure. Sherlock looked into John's eyes and found terror there.

"Let him go," Sherlock snarled.

"One more step and I blow his brains out," said the man. A woman shrieked inside the house and a light went on in the kitchen. The window over the sink opened.

"What are you doing!" the woman shrieked. Sherlock looked inside; while the woman was young, posh, and attractive, she was very clearly the man's sister. They had the same tan skin tone, the same green eyes. She got the better end of the gene pool. "Who are they?"

"Stay inside, Juliet, these men were snooping around the bins. Oi! Keep back!" Sherlock had attempted to approach again but put his hands in the air when the man dug the pistol deeper into John's temple, turning John's head to the side. John looked directly at Sherlock, breathing heavily beneath the man's hand, and the terror began to cede from his eyes.

"Get back inside!" Juliet yelled. "The neighbors will see! It's bad enough you put the tarp in our bins to begin with! Let them go!"

"They'll go to the police," the man yelled back.

"Of course they will. We'll leave now and be out of the country tonight. I'm not going to have you make this worse - you got us into this mess. I just wanted them to confess."

"No one cheats on my baby sister!" the man yelled, and while he continued to squabble with his sister John's eyes turned resolute. In one swift movement his elbow connected with the man's round belly and he barreled over in pain. John snatched the gun out of his hand, hit him in the head, and turned to Juliet when the man fell to the ground.

"Stay where you are or I will shoot you," said John and Juliet put her hands up immediately. "Sherlock, get the police over here now."

Sherlock called the crime scene detective and had him send officers over, but while Sherlock was on the phone the man grabbed John by the ankle and brought him down to the ground. John's head connected violently with the pavement underneath him but, on the way, had managed to fire a single shot into the man's chest. Juliet's screams woke Sherlock from his dream.

Sherlock's eyes opened suddenly and he felt disoriented. John lay next to him in the bed, his eyes closed, the sunbeam from the morning light illuminating his face. Sherlock immediately propped himself up on his elbow and placed one hand on the side of John's face.

"John," he said, still seeing John lying on the pavement with his eyes closed. "John, wake up."

John in the bed awoke suddenly and looked at Sherlock momentarily before his face turned to confusion. "What, Sherlock?" he asked. "What time is it?"

Sherlock let out his breath and realized he had completely overreacted to the sudden end of his dream. He let go of John and rested his head back on his pillow.

"Never mind, go back to sleep," said Sherlock. Sherlock closed his eyes and Dream John stirred slowly to Sherlock's attempts to rouse him.

"Were you dreaming?" John asked. Sherlock opened his eyes again and looked at John, who must have seen the concern Sherlock tried to hide from his face. Sherlock didn't respond. "What was it about?"

"Our first case," said Sherlock. John smiled.

"Ah," he said. "That was definitely an exciting one. You gave me a concussion."

"I didn't give you a concussion – the brother of a jealous wife gave you a concussion."

"But I wouldn't have been there if it weren't for you," said John. His smile was unnervingly playful and Sherlock had never liked to be teased. "Okay, so which part woke you up? When the case ended or when I got knocked out? My guess is when I was knocked out, since you were trying to wake me." Sherlock didn't reply and John's smile grew. "Oh, I'm right. I'm never right. Sherlock, were you concerned for me? Did you wake up and think something bad had happened to me?"

"Shut up," said Sherlock and John scooted closer to him on the bed.

"I'm fine, Sherlock. A little danger isn't going to take me away from you," said John. Sherlock turned onto his back and considered facing away from John completely, but it would only further ignite his teasing. John settled his head on Sherlock's chest, held him tightly around the waist, and placed one leg in between Sherlock's. Sherlock took in a breath and realized how much he liked the feeling. He glanced down to see the top of John's head in the crook of his shoulder and allowed his left arm to rest against John's back, his hand on John's side.

John began to doze but Sherlock began to think, and within moments Sherlock felt incredibly uncomfortable. Not only was he losing circulation to his arm, but John's proximity made him very warm and very nervous. He was awake and it was time to think. It was no longer time for John.

"John, get up, there's work to be done," said Sherlock.

"Just a little longer," said John quietly. "Then we can get up."

This made Sherlock even more nervous, but there was a smaller, quieter part of him that wanted to stay in this position with John for several more hours. "Just another minute," said Sherlock.

"Five minutes," countered John.

"Ninety seconds."

"Three minutes."

"Fine, three minutes," said Sherlock and he began to count. He counted by John's breaths, even and rhythmic in John's lack of mental alertness. Thirty-six breaths later, he sat up and did not allow John to negotiate further. John groaned and rolled over; Sherlock let him doze while Sherlock showered and dressed.

"Do you think she's in there?" John asked later after he stepped out of the bathroom. Sherlock glanced back; John wore only pants and Sherlock immediately turned back to the warehouse.

"She arrived when you were in the shower," said Sherlock. "She's guarded but not heavily. I don't think she'll be there long, so we'll have to move quickly if we want to get her."

"What's the plan?" John asked. Sherlock was hyper aware of his presence now that he'd seen him mostly unclothed and could hear every nuance of John's dress – the sound of his vest, the sound of each leg into his trousers, each button on his shirt, both socks, how he tied his shoes, and finally, his jumper. Sherlock looked back at him again once the process was complete.

"There's an office on the first floor. It's my assumption she'll be in there. We enter the warehouse, go to her office, incapacitate anyone in the office with her, and question her there."

"And how exactly are we supposed to get into her office without anyone noticing us? You wanted people to be aware we are in town, so they're bound to be looking for us. We can't just walk in there undetected."

"Anyone can walk in anywhere undetected. You just need to hide in plain sight." Sherlock threw a jacket at John. "Put this on." John looked down at the gray jacket and his nose turned up at the sight of it. "Put it on and take off your jumper. It's too noticeable."

"You could have said something before I put it on," said John and after he took off his jumper Sherlock looked at his lilac button-down and insisted it come off too. "I was just undressed a second ago. You couldn't have said this earlier?" Sherlock could have but didn't and waited until John put on the jacket before handing John his gun. "Are you going to change your clothes? You have a suit on."

"You're a factory worker. I'm a businessman."

"No, you're Sherlock. We'll walk right in there and everyone will say 'Oh look, it's Sherlock Holmes,' and then they will murder us."

"Unlikely," said Sherlock. Sherlock did remove his blazer and rolled up his sleeves, but that was the extent of his disguise. "Now I can't carry my gun. Can you carry two?"

"Yes," said John and took the gun Sherlock had stolen from D'Angelis's guard. "Just stay close to me."

They elected to walk the two streets to the warehouse and jump the fence. All of the activity was inside so there were very few workers or guardsmen on the grounds, so the route to the door was very simple. Once Sherlock cracked open the door, however, it was a different story. The entire ground floor of the factory was just one large room with support beams evenly placed, and nearly fifty workers moved, opened, sorted, and repackaged marijuana at a high rate of speed. Everyone had a function and a deadline, which meant everyone was focused on work.

Sherlock quietly closed the door. "We're maybe twenty meters from the stairs to the first floor. If we walk with purpose we can make it." John nodded. "Ready?" John nodded again, his hands in the pocket of his jacket, obviously gripping the handle of Sherlock's gun. "Be less obvious, John. You're a worker, not an assassin."

"Sorry," said John and loosened his grip on the gun but did not remove his hands from his pockets.

Sherlock opened the door and they walked quickly but not too quickly toward the metal stairs running along the wall. The sounds of the factory were incredibly loud between the movement of boxes, the clatter of crates and wooden pallets, the operation of small forklifts, and the chatter of the workers. No one seemed to notice them or question what they were doing. Sherlock began to ascend the stairs first, John behind him, and they made it to the first floor in less than a minute, without incident.

The first floor, however, was less populated and thus its occupants much more alert. As soon as they were separated from the workers on the ground floor they were spotted by a man dressed similarly to Sherlock.

"Who are you?" the man asked loudly.

"John," said Sherlock, his hand extended behind him, and John handed Sherlock his gun. It was not a discreet exchange and the man pulled out his own gun just as quickly. John, who was exponentially more prepared for this kind of interaction, fired immediately. The man fell backward and John took his gun from him, but the sound drew the attention of other first floor occupants.

John, now equipped with two guns, was still a better shot with both guns than Sherlock was with both of his hands securely holding one. The gunshots were loud as they incapacitated several men, but the sounds coming up the stairs from the factory were louder. There was no threat that the factory workers below would notice the shootout.

Sherlock identified Renee's office, but the situation in the hallway had to be settled before they could corner her in there, and now that they were identified as intruders, their time to question Renee decreased significantly. She could easily be calling for backup, which was why John continued to fire without question until everyone was on the ground, and then they ran for the office.

"Are you hit?" John asked.

"No," said Sherlock. "You?"

"Grazed in the arm, but it's nothing. I'm fine."

The office door was locked. Sherlock stepped out of the way and John kicked it twice before it opened and they came face-to-face with Renee Finch, standing behind her desk, her pistol pointed directly at the door. She fired immediately; Sherlock and John flung to the side but the bullet still hit Sherlock in the corner of his shoulder. John stepped forward and fired back, hitting Renee in the hand and causing her to drop the gun onto her desk with a loud clatter. Sherlock dove for it before she could pick it up and turned it back on her although his aim was shaking due to the wound to his shoulder.

John closed the door behind them; it wasn't a tight seal due to his need to kick it in, but it stayed shut when he let go. He raised his gun at Renee and she flickered her gaze between the two of them before she sat back in her chair, defeated, covering her bleeding hand with the sleeve of her shirt.

Renee Finch was much smaller than anticipated in person, probably because she was surrounded by a large desk and tall file cabinets, but the look on her face was severe. She had very large eyes, framed to look even larger with makeup, but wore little makeup elsewhere, and pinned her dark hair back behind her head and securely out of the way. Once John stepped forward to ensure his gun was trained on her, Sherlock lowered his own and finally looked at his shoulder.  The wound stung but did not appear to be serious.

"I'm very glad to finally meet you, Mrs. Finch," said Sherlock.

"What do you want?" Renee responded crudely, and while Sherlock knew she was a Japanese citizen and immigrated to England at a young age, she did not retain any of her Japanese accent.

"We'll make this quick because I'm certain we'll be surrounded in no time at all," said Sherlock. "Who is Sebastian Moran?"

"Really?" asked Renee and her eyebrows raised significantly on her forehead. "You just murdered twenty of my guards to ask about Sebastian Moran?"

"They're not dead," said John. "They're out for a while, though."

"Quit stalling," said Sherlock. "Who is he?" Renee closed her mouth and Sherlock nodded to John.

"John, shoot her."

"No!" said Renee and she put up her uninjured hand to stop John. "All right, all right. Sebastian Moran is my point of contact to making the operation run smoothly. He and his employer are able to arrange for the shipments to be manifested as normal chemical exports instead of marijuana."

"Who is his employer?" Sherlock asked, trying very hard not to seem eager at the news that Sebastian Moran was just another piece of the puzzle.

"I've never met him," said Renee. "He doesn't consult in person."

"I didn't ask if you've met him. I asked who is Moran's employer." Renee hesitated again and Sherlock looked at John, which caused her to put up her hand a second time.

"Moriarty," said Renee so quietly Sherlock had to lean in to hear it. She did not look at either of them when she said it, and as soon as the name escaped her lips she lowered her hands to her waist and began to fidget with her fingers. "Moriarty. Please don't shoot me."

Sherlock paused momentarily to scan his mind palace for the name, but he came up empty.

"And who is Moriarty?"

There was a loud bang outside the door and John turned to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, we've got to go," said John. Sherlock, although now piqued with curiosity, agreed.

"We'll be in touch," said Sherlock and John opened the door to find some of the men stirring. One of the men was on his feet and John shot him in the shoulder before John and Sherlock bolted across the hallway, down the stairs, and out of the warehouse. Neither stopped running until they were back in the hotel.


	15. Chapter 15

"So who is Moriarty?" John asked.

Sherlock sat in front of John on the bed, his shirt off, John carefully stitching up the flesh wound on his shoulder. John's arm graze only really needed a bandage, but Sherlock's shoulder was deep enough that John did not feel safe just bandaging it. John assumed his medical kit was going to come handy on this trip and was very unhappy to realize that he was correct.

"I don't know," said Sherlock, "and I don't like not knowing. Did you see her eyes when she said his name? He is significant and she did not want to tell us."

"Well for not wanting to tell us, she certainly told us quickly," said John. He closed his first suture and began on a second. Sherlock glanced back at him.

"How many?" Sherlock asked.

"Six," said John. "Are you all right? Are you still numb enough?"

"Yes," said Sherlock. John had no way of knowing if Sherlock was being honest, and Sherlock would not react to the pain even if John had not anesthetized the wound. Sherlock watched most of the procedure for the second suture and then looked up into John's eyes after John trimmed it. "Look how steady your hands are."

John smiled at him. "I'm glad you think so," said John.

"No, they are," said Sherlock. "Perfectly steady."

"Doesn't matter," said John with a heavy sigh. "It's still in my history that I had a tremor. Even if it's gone I don't think anyone would hire me again." Sherlock didn't speak further and continued to watch as John finished stitching the wound. Once finished, Sherlock felt a small kiss on his back. His eyes gently closed a moment, but then John placed a bandage over his wound and got off the bed to put away his medical equipment. Sherlock spoke up again.

"Thank you, John," said Sherlock.

"There's no way that would have healed properly without stitches," said John.

"No, for probably killing twenty men back there. I appreciate your dedication."

"You appreciate me saving your arse," said John, "but you're welcome." John sat down at the table and Sherlock put on a clean shirt. "So what's next?"

"I need more information," said Sherlock. "From Renee's reluctance to give up a name, I doubt she'll have any sort of documentation on him, but she knows more than she had a chance to say. She hasn't left yet, so we'll wait for her to do so and then we'll have to get more out of her. It might be more difficult to get to her now that we've caused a mess, but it's the only way."

"We'll need more ammunition. We have enough to take her if it's just her or maybe her and one or two guards, but if it's a shootout like today we'll need more." Sherlock nodded and walked to the window, where he began surveillance again. John approached him and stood to the side. "Are you okay? Not just your shoulder."

"Yes, I'm fine," said Sherlock.

"There's a warehouse full of pot in there," said John, "and a first floor full of bodies. They're probably not dead, but they're incapacitated. We could order a raid and be done with it."

"But no Moran," said Sherlock.

"No, but we can still get him later," said John. "We order a raid, Renee is arrested, we question her in custody – or, more accurately, let the police question her in custody – then we find Moran's location and find out more about Moriarty. We don't have to play secret agent here and get shot at all day long. We were both extremely lucky in there; six stitches and a couple of bandages. We might not be so lucky next time. Maybe we let the proper authorities finish it."

"This is bigger than the proper authorities," said Sherlock without looking away from the window. "D'Angelis was arrested next to two trucks of marijuana and he was not even indicted. When I ran Moran's fingerprints at Venture Mycroft immediately called inquiring why. Renee was reluctant to even tell us Moriarty's name. If we turn it over now then Renee walks free, Moran and Moriarty know we know their names, and we become the hunted." Sherlock looked just briefly at John before returning to the window. "That's not going to happen."

John crossed his arms and stared up at Sherlock, who tilted his head and continued to look at the warehouse two streets away. John knew after he was threatened at gunpoint and violently concussed during their very first case together that Sherlock was a dangerous person. John enjoyed that. It brought adventure to a life that had not seen any since being shot through the shoulder in Afghanistan. Sherlock had been right, as usual, that John needed action to be happy. This, however, had elevated from a jaunt around the world to kidnapping and shootouts and now potentially more violence. John wondered if it was worth it.

Sherlock looked back at John, and John's thought process changed. It was definitely worth it.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

John grabbed a fistful of Sherlock's tight button down and pulled him down. John carefully kissed him, softly, only briefly, and then let him continue his surveillance. When Sherlock turned back to the window, John sat down and waited.

***

It was late afternoon and Renee never left the warehouse.

"Did we miss her?" John asked. "You can't have been staring at all of the exits this entire time."

"No," said Sherlock as he watched the last of the factory workers enter a car and drive away. "She's still in there."

The wounded had been carted off quietly during the day, some on their own, some with the aid of others. One person was carried and tossed into the back of a truck; Sherlock did not tell John that someone had died. The only odd occurrence throughout the day was a single black car that entered the warehouse around three o'clock. It never left, and little by little after it arrived all the rest of the workers began to leave. From what Sherlock had estimated during their brief walk through the warehouse, this final car of three were the last to leave.

"How do you feel?" Sherlock asked John.

"I'm all right," said John. "Did you eat?" John gestured to the food on the table; there was still a place setting for Sherlock. Sherlock shook his head. "Are you going to eat?" Sherlock shook his head again. "Fine."

"We're going back in," said Sherlock.

"I told you, Sherlock. We need more ammo if we're going back in."

"Everyone's gone. Renee is still inside and a car drove into the factory about an hour ago. No more than four people, I estimate. I have Renee's gun. It's almost full."

"I still have a full clip. If we're thinking four or five then we should be okay. Do you still have the guard's gun?" Sherlock shook his head.

"Empty."

"We should still be okay." John pulled on his jumper and looked at his coat. "Is it cold?"

"Somewhat," said Sherlock. "I'm wearing my coat."

John put on his coat and followed Sherlock out the door as Sherlock tied his blue scarf around his neck. "Well, if there's anyone still in there, you're definitely Sherlock Holmes now. There's no mistaking you."

They hopped the same fence to the warehouse and Sherlock slowly opened the side door. The sun was now poised to shine directly into the warehouse through the top windows, but Sherlock could also see light streaming from the stairs to the first floor. The warehouse was completely empty. Sherlock and John quietly entered and silently closed the door behind them. Their steps toward the stairs were deliberate and slow; everything seemed to echo now that the commotion of the day had ceased.

Just before they reached the stairs there was a loud female scream and two distinct shots from upstairs. Sherlock bolted up the stairs, John hot on his tail, his gun out of his pocket and ready to fire. Sherlock had forgotten about his gun.

They arrived on the first floor to find two figures standing in the open hallway. All of the bodies from the shootout that morning had been removed apart from one. Renee lay lifeless on the floor a hundred meters in front of them, her large eyes obviously open, one bullet directly between them, the other in her chest.

"Freeze!" yelled John. "Turn around and face me."

The first figure turned around slowly, showing no signs of concern or urgency. Sebastian Moran wore a gray suit and a rather excited smile at the sight of both of them. Beside him the second figure turned around, a gun raised at chest height.

It was Mary.

The tremor in John's left hand caused the gun to shake in front of him and he quickly grasped the hilt in his right to steady it. Sherlock and Moran could have easily disappeared from the earth. Renee might have never even existed. The only person left in the room was his wife, her face hard, her eyes blank, her gun extended directly at him. She'd murdered Renee. She stood next to Sebastian. She had a gun. She was in Japan. She knew what she was doing.

"Mary?" John finally asked, after he had been staring at her for several seconds.

"Put the gun down, John," she said. He did not. "John, I'm only going to ask this once. Put your gun down."

"As much as I would love to stand here and watch, there's someplace I have to be," said Moran. "If you don't mind saving this little domestic for later, I'd much appreciate it."

John did not take his eyes off Mary; she did not remove her eyes from him. Sherlock finally took his gun from his pocket and pointed it Moran. "Don't be stupid, Sherlock," said Moran. "Mary here is quite skilled enough to take the both of you out. Now, if you don't mind, it's time to go." Moran walked past Sherlock to the stairs, but Mary did not move. "Mary, come on now."

"You go ahead," said Mary. "I'm presently in a stalemate."

Moran didn't argue and descended the stairs. Mary looked over at Sherlock but before she pointed the gun at him, he quickly turned and followed Moran down the stairs. Mary retrained her eyes on her husband.

"What the hell, Mary?" John asked once they were alone.

"Oh, John," said Mary. "Don't be tedious."

"No, I get to be all the tedious I want to be," said John and he took a step forward, the fury in his body outweighing the danger he found himself in at the opposite end of the barrel of his wife's gun. Mary stiffened at his approach and tightened her grip on her gun. "What the hell is this? You work in marketing with my sister! You don't even like that I have a gun! How are you in league with Sebastian Moran in fucking Japan of all places?"

"I could ask you the same thing," said Mary.

"You knew I was going on a case with Sherlock. You know that he is a detective. You knew this!"

"I know a lot of things, John," said Mary, her temper rising to match his. "I know all about what the two of you do on your cases. Don't think for a second that I have been in the dark about you this whole time. I am not an idiot as much as you may think I might be. Explain to me how you ended up here!"

"I have nothing to explain," said John. "You, on the other hand, have everything to explain."

"Moran came to me once Sherlock began to get too close to this business," said Mary. "He knew about my past –"

"What past? You grew up in Derry!"

"I grew up in New York until I went to Quantico and became an FBI agent. I was there for four years before the CIA recruited me and I stayed with them until I had to get out. It was two years before you met me."

John's mind was reeling. Mary was at the end of a gun pointed at him and when she spoke her perfect accent disappeared, replaced by the flat, wide-mouthed American speech that turned her into a different person. John took in a deep breath but did not let his gun shake in his hand again. There were so many questions to be asked of this person who he had married and stood by for so long.

"I knew you were grieving when we met," she continued in her horrible accent. It sounded nothing like her. She looked nothing like the woman he had loved. Her eyes had darkened, her hair fell out of place, her posture changed, and she was not Mary any longer. "I knew your heart was broken but I didn't ask. I know what James meant to you. I trusted you to come to me when the time was right but you never did. You were someone else when you came home and then you met Sherlock – and I knew something was off right away. I never expected that it would lead to this."

"You have no right," spat John, his voice carrying through the empty hallway, "to talk about him like you know what I was going through. You have no right to assume that you know anything about what I do when I am with Sherlock. That does not concern you, just like this, now, does not concern you."

"I do know," said Mary softly, "and I know that it's over now. Goodbye, John."

John knew she was going to fire before she did and reacted quickly. His bullet hit her in between the eyes; she fired as she fell, and her bullet hit him in the stomach. His gun dropped out of his hand and clattered onto the floor, followed not long after by his own body.


	16. Chapter 16

They met on the platform while waiting for the tube. It wasn't anything noteworthy or particularly interesting. It wouldn't make a great party story, but it was an event that caused John's life to split into Before and After, which was odd since he'd just experienced what he thought was a substantial Before and After when he was shot in the shoulder during a shootout in Kandahar and told he would be sent home for good. This meeting on the platform of the Barbican station while waiting for the train proved to be the most significant turning point of John's life.

"John Watson?" he heard from behind him. He turned to see Mike Stamford, or at least who he assumed was Mike Stamford under all that excess weight, standing behind him with a briefcase and a travel mug.

"Mike?" John asked.

"Yes, yes, it's me. I know, I got fat. What are you doing here waiting for a train? I thought you were in abroad getting shot at?"

John covered the recently healed hole in his left shoulder with his right hand and Mike immediately looked apologetic.

"Hey, I'm sorry, mate," said Mike. "What are you doing now? Do you want to get a coffee?" John glanced at Mike's cup in his hand and thought to make a comment, but the desire to delay his trip home and catch up with someone he'd known for so many years prevented him from ruining it. John nodded.

They didn't board the train and instead left the station completely and found coffee around the corner. After Mike insisted he pay, the two sat at a table. "How long have you been back?" Mike asked.

"Just a month," said John.

"Ah, is this it then? Will you be going back?" John shook his head. "Well I think it's best that you're home anyway. Who wants to be over there sweating your bollocks off if you can be here and freeze instead? It looks like you got married, then?" Mike gestured to John's left hand that gripped his coffee cup to prevent it from shaking. The tremor was what caused him to lose an opportunity to return to Bart's again – John didn't want Mike to see it too.

"Yeah," said John. "Mary. She works with my sister."

"How long?"

"A bit more than a year," said John. "We married right before I redeployed. How's Rita?"

"Same as ever," said Mike with a shrug. "We have a son. Ryan." John nodded. "I suppose if you married right before you redeployed you don't have any children yet, right?"

"Correct. I think we're getting on a bit in years to really start that anyway."

"You working?"

John pursed his lips together to decide how to answer that question. "Nope," said John. "I'm still looking, but I haven't really found anything I like yet. Don't think I really want something where I'm practicing, though. Don't know if I still have it in me."

"Ah, well, you're in luck then," said Mike and John raised his eyebrows at him. "There's this place not far from here. Venture. They're a biomedical engineering company and my physician liaison just told me this week he's leaving the company. It's nothing as exciting as getting shot at in the Middle East, but you get to do some good work."

"Physician liaison?" John asked.

"Yeah. Test new medical devices and bring them to physicians in the area to try them out. You need an MD to do it and while you're not seeing patients, you need to have the proper knowledge to know if the device is going to be useful or not."

"Hmm," said John. "Sounds like it could be interesting."

It wasn't interesting at all, but John was offered the position within four days and he was finally able to stop Mary's daily nagging about getting a job. John started the following Monday and after a very brief and very uninformative orientation, John was dropped off at an empty cubicle next to a blank wall with nothing but a folder and the direction to check his email for more instructions.

John desperately needed tea at this point. He knew from his tour that this floor had a kitchen and that the kitchen had tea, so he set down his folder and began to wander off in the general direction of the kitchen. This was an incredibly stupid move because John quickly found himself lost in a maze of identical cubicles and could not find the kitchen nor his desk. Everything looked the same, the hallways twisted frequently, and there was absolutely no sign or marker to indicate that he had not ventured out of the building and into the wilderness.

John turned a corner and stopped short before he ran into someone else in one of the many empty hallways that connected squares of cubicles together. The man, much taller than John, wore a black suit and purple shirt and looked down at a cell phone in his hands instead of where he was going. He was very lean for such a tall man, but his shirt and pants were tight enough to show off the quiet strength underneath his skin. He had a mop of black curls atop his head that bounced neatly together when he raised his eyes to meet John's. John looked directly into them and saw what felt like the entire universe in a clash of blue and green. The man's skin was pale and lay smoothly over sharp cheekbones, a defined jawline, and thin but remarkably pink lips.

Oh no, was John's very first thought.

He had not taken this job to fall in love. He was already in love, or at least he'd thought he was in love, with his wife. He was determined to get to know Mary better and build their life together. He was determined to prove to himself that their marriage could work, because everyone he knew, including his sister, had told him that their marriage was a whirlwind affair set to fizzle once they actually began to live together. He was determined to prove to himself that he had not married her in reaction to his break up with James Sholto.

This man, however, was the most perfect man John had ever seen in his life, and even without hearing his voice or knowing his personality, John knew he had met a very dangerous person.

"Are you lost?" asked the man after he and John stared at each other for at least a full minute.

His voice was low and rich like the sound of warm butter for bread. He may have only spoken three words but his mouth was not helping the situation.

"Yes," replied John. The man put a smile on his lips and extended his hand.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said.

"John Watson." John took Sherlock's hand and shook it. Sherlock had a firm grip and when John let go his hand felt like it had been through an electrical current. Even when John returned it to his side he could feel it buzzing. "Where is the kitchen?"

"This way," said Sherlock and turned John around with his hand. When Sherlock released John's shoulder, the skin there began to buzz just like his hand had. John's entire body was beginning to feel like it was on fire and he could not help but grow warm from the feeling. He was very aware of Sherlock's presence next to him.

They were not far from the kitchen at all. Sherlock stood next to him while John selected a bag of tea and poured hot water over it. He could feel Sherlock's eyes all over him as he waited for it to steep and was afraid to look back, knowing that the result was not work appropriate.

"So you're the new tester, then?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Tester. Physician Liaison is the technical term, I believe, but internally we call them testers. You took over for Bradley who just retired, I believe."

"Yes," said John. "How did you know that?"

"It's the only vacancy on the floor apart from interns who are always coming and going, and you don't look the age for an intern. You're clearly a physician from your steady hands – although I've noticed the tremor in your left hand and I'm sure you don't like to talk about it so I'll move on – and you're recently returned from military service due to your shoulder so I'm assuming you couldn't find a position in a hospital but your wife has been nagging you about getting a job so here you are, settled for an engineering company when I'm sure you'd rather be somewhere more exciting."

Sherlock closed his mouth and looked rather sheepish from spewing completely factual details at John. John stared at him a moment and Sherlock looked down at the ground until John spoke.

"That is absolutely brilliant," said John. Sherlock's eyes flickered back up to him and another smile passed to his lips. "How did you know all of that?"

"I mentioned your hands, but your haircut, posture, and fading tan lines all suggest military service. You wear a ring so you're obviously married, and I know you can't find a position in practice due to your injuries so of course your wife is nagging you about getting a job. Why would someone with as exciting a life as yours take a job at Venture if you had another choice?"

"No, you're completely right," said John. Sherlock continued to smile, which caught onto John's lips, and John returned to his tea. "Did you want any?"

"Yes, thank you," said Sherlock.

"So what else do you know about me?" John asked, looking over at Sherlock, who did not say that he knew that John was the man with whom he would spend all of his days and all of his nights, who did not say that John was the only person on the planet who could tolerate his deductions, and who did not say that John made Sherlock feel like a human being for the first time in his entire life. Instead, Sherlock said:

"So did your brother introduce you to your wife?"

"How could you possibly know that?" John asked.

"I suppose it was a lucky guess," said Sherlock and John laughed.

"You're almost right," said John. "My sister."

"Ah, sister," said Sherlock. "There's always something."

After John handed Sherlock a cup of tea, Sherlock walked John back to his cube in a much more direct route than the tour that morning. "We'll pass by my desk on the way," said Sherlock, "if you'd like to see where I sit. I'm an independent engineer, so I suppose we'll be seeing a lot of each other."

"Certainly," said John.

They passed by a set of cubes with all of the panels taken down; John remembered that these cubes were near his desk. "You're just up there," said Sherlock, pointing, "but I'm right here." Sherlock ducked behind a wall to four cubes completely cut off from everywhere else. There was no natural light here but two very powerful fluorescent lights just overhead. Sherlock set his tea on the second desk in the line of four. It was incredibly messy.

"Sorry about this," said Sherlock and he attempted to tidy the mess but only shifted it a bit, revealing two books from under a pile of newspapers. One was a Scarpetta mystery novel by Patricia Cromwell, the other _Giovanni's Room_ by James Baldwin.

"Do you like to read?" asked John, picking up the mystery novel.

"Yes," said Sherlock. "It takes away from the tedium of the job."

"They let you read on the job?" John asked.

"As long as I occasionally am productive I don't think anyone cares what I do," said Sherlock.

"I love Scarpetta," John said, "but I didn't peg you as one for mysteries. From what you could get from me in five minutes in the kitchen, I feel like the blurb would give the ending away for you."

"Not all characters are introduced in the blurb."

"But the killer is usually introduced early on." John looked at the bookmark placed near the front of the book. "Have you figured it out already?" Sherlock nodded. "Of course you have. I usually think it's one person for the majority of the novel and then find out at the end I've been watching the wrong person the whole time. Are you ever wrong?"

Sherlock looked torn between the truth and trying to please John since they did not know each other very well. When John smiled, Sherlock simply said, "No."

"Of course you aren't."

"Have you read that one?" Sherlock asked. John shook his head. "Take it. Since I already know the ending anyway."

"Thank you," said John. He picked up the other book on Sherlock's desk. "What about this one? I haven't heard of it."

"It's something my brother gave me," said Sherlock. "I've read it once already and it's all right, but he says I should try it again. Honestly he's the one who should be reading it."

John opened the book and briefly scanned through it until he found a passage that jumped out at him. He quickly closed the book and placed it back on the desk. "So where is my desk from here?" John asked.

"Just around the corner." Sherlock escorted John back the way they came, past the pharmaceutical team with their missing panels to a familiar-looking row. John recognized his empty cube and his welcome folder. "Here you are. Do you think you'll be able to figure it out from here?" John nodded. Sherlock began to walk away and then quickly returned. "Do you want to have lunch?"

"Sure," said John.

"Chinese?"

"Sounds good to me."

"I'll be back at noon."

Sherlock walked away and John's eyes followed him all the way around the corner. When he was gone, John locked eyes with a pretty brunette sitting at the corner desk on the pharmaceutical team. She smiled at him. He smiled back, but then quickly turned back to his desk. There he put his head in his hands and took a very deep breath to calm himself. When he closed his eyes all he could see was the passage from the book on Sherlock's desk:

_"Love him," said Jacques, with vehemence, "love him and let him love you. Do you think anything else under heaven really matters?"_


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock raced down the stairs after Moran, who took off at a high speed when he realized he was no longer alone. Once on the ground floor of the warehouse, Sherlock fired at him but missed completely, and Moran turned around, his gun pulled, and aimed directly at Sherlock. Moran would fire upon him with no hesitation if Sherlock made a move, so Sherlock remained where he was and stared directly at the man he'd been pursuing for weeks. While Sherlock stared at him and longed to just shoot and end it, there were bigger pieces of the puzzle and a man upstairs who was about to discover information about his wife that he never should have learned.

"Why Mary?" Sherlock asked. "Why pull her into this?"

"You were getting too close, Sherlock," said Moran. "I needed to keep an eye on you. There was no one better than John Watson's wife."

"You turned her into a killer," said Sherlock.

"She was already a killer. I just made her remember how much she missed it."

There were two shots upstairs.

"See?" said Moran with a smile on his hideous face. "She's a killer." Sherlock looked back at the stairs and Moran began toward the black car parked just inside the factory by an open bay door.

"Stop!" yelled Sherlock.

"What's it going to be, Sherlock?" Moran asked as he turned around, his gun still raised toward Sherlock. "I heard two shots, didn't you?"

Sherlock looked back to the stairs and felt his hands begin to shake. There was no way that Mary, even with her FBI and CIA training, would be able to outshoot John. She was dead. There was no doubt in that. However Moran was right; there were two shots, and Sherlock had no idea the outcome of the second. Moran continued walking backward to the car, his gun aimed at Sherlock, a smirk on his lips, and Sherlock continued to aim his own gun back at Moran. Moran was quickly getting out of Sherlock's range. He needed to make a decision.

Sherlock turned and bolted back toward the stairs. Moran jumped into the car and sped away by the time Sherlock was halfway up them. Sherlock's heart was pounding wildly in his chest. He never should have left John. Never should have looked away from John. It was his fault again.

He grabbed his phone out of his pocket and pressed it to his ear.

"Sherlock?" answered Mycroft after one ring.

"I need an ambulance. Immediately."

"At the warehouse?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes. Hurry up. It's John."

"Sherlock…" said Mycroft but Sherlock did not want to listen to it. He returned the phone to his pocket and finished ascending the stairs.

Mary was sprawled on her back, her gun lying on the ground next to her hand, her eyes staring, unblinking, at the ceiling. John was on the ground near the stairs, his coat and jumper off, his jumped pressed against a growing bloodstain on his abdomen.

"John!" Sherlock yelled and he immediately felt tears entering his eyes at the sight of blood. He dropped the gun onto the ground and collapsed onto the floor next to John, who turned his head slightly to look at Sherlock. "John, what do I do?"

"Keep pressure," said John and Sherlock placed his hands on John's jumper to keep the pressure on John's abdomen. The jumper was soaked through already so Sherlock tossed it to the side, removed his scarf, and replaced his hands against the dark red blood the oozed out of Sherlock's reason for existence.

"John," said Sherlock and his voice broke. He could barely see. "John, there's too much blood. What do I do?"

"Just keep the pressure, Sherlock," said John. "Did you call for an ambulance?"

"Yes," said Sherlock. "You can't die. You absolutely cannot die, okay?"

"I'm not going to die," said John unconvincingly. His entire face was pale and now that his coat and jumper were off, and he lay on the concrete floor, he looked very cold.

"I'm sorry," said Sherlock. "I'm sorry I made you come with me. This isn't how it was supposed to turn out. I just can't do this on my own anymore. I know I'm a horrible person and I know that you deserve so much better than me. I'm not the kind of person who feels things, John, but you make me feel things and I don't know what to do about it."

"Really, Sherlock?" John said with a weak stab at humor. "You're doing this now?"

"What if you die?" Sherlock asked.

"I told you –" John began, but he couldn't finish without coughing.

"No, John, please!" said Sherlock and he awkwardly bent forward, still trying to keep pressure on the wound. He could feel more of John's blood soaking through the scarf with every violent convulsion that resulted in a cough. "John, please, stay with me. I love you."

"I know you do, you idiot," said John.

Sherlock desperately wanted to kiss him and feel John respond to him, but the angle was not right. He couldn't do it without losing pressure, and John's life was the most important thing in the world now. The ambulance would arrive and return blood to John's body and stitch up his wound like John stitched up Sherlock's shoulder just a few hours ago. Mycroft would handle any sort of inquires about the two dead women lying on the floor. All that mattered was that John lived.

John's eyes began to droop.

"No, John, stay here with me. We love each other. We have to stare wistfully into each other's eyes." John cracked a smile but didn't respond. "John!" John's eyes drooped further until they closed and his body went still. The ambulance sirens could be heard in the silence.

***

John was airlifted to a hospital in Tokyo proper, Sherlock close at his side. Sherlock's Japanese was passable at best, but the medical terminology and the rapid pace of their speech caused him to understand very little of what was happening. The only major concern that Sherlock heard over and over was blood loss – John was losing a lot of blood and it had to be controlled.

Sherlock sat in the helicopter with the medical team, his bloody hands over his mouth, staring at John's body. He had cried the entire journey to Tokyo, his vision blurring with tears until they broke the over the edge and fell down his cheeks. The process repeated several times: the sallow skin of John's face began to blur at the edges until there was nothing but blobs of color; the tears would fall hot out of Sherlock's eyes and into his hand so that John's appearance would snap into focus again; the edges would begin to blur.

Surgery was deemed necessary before they even arrived at the hospital. When they landed on the roof a medical team awaited him to transport him down to the OR. Sherlock was not allowed to accompany them. One person stopped him and asked in rough English if he was okay. Sherlock shook his head several times, his eyes watching John and the medical team disappear into the elevator. Once they were gone, several things began to make sense.

"Are you hurt?" the nurse asked. Sherlock could feel that at some point the stitches in his shoulder had opened, and the recognition of it caused pain to shoot through his arm and neck. Sherlock did not react because it would require medical attention and he had a plan in mind.

"No," said Sherlock. "How long will he be in surgery?"

"Depends how bad," said the nurse.

"Estimate," said Sherlock. "Guess. An hour? Two hours? Twelve hours?"

"Depends how bad," repeated the nurse with a shake of his head. "Two hours but maybe more."

"It's long enough," said Sherlock and he ran to the elevator. The wait to the ground floor was agonizing, but once there Sherlock ran through the hospital at top speed and to the parking lot, where he commandeered the first vehicle he could and drove back toward Ichihara. There was only one way to find where Moran would be at this point. It had only been twenty minutes, but twenty minutes could have put Moran anywhere.

"Mycroft," said Sherlock into his mobile. "Where is Moran?"

"His car is still in Ichihara. Are you in my car?"

"No, John –" Sherlock paused when he felt tears enter his eyes at the vocalization of John's name. There was a case to finish and a man to kill. "I had to take a car in Tokyo. I'm on my way. Why is he still in Ichihara?"

"He stopped at a house for several minutes and just now left. How is John? Is he in surgery yet?"

Sherlock slammed his hand against the steering wheel and tried not to think about it. It was incredibly difficult and he needed to focus. The pain that shot up his arm and into his shoulder helped a bit.

"Who is Moriarty, Mycroft?"

Mycroft was silent for entirely too long.

"Dammit, Mycroft, don't play politics with me. Who is Moriarty?"

"You should return to John. I have men on the ground who can take Moran."

"Mycroft!"

"Listen to me, Sherlock," said Mycroft in his condescending older brother tone that only boiled Sherlock's blood, "do not get involved. Return to the hospital and wait for John. Make sure you're there when he wakes. My men will take Moran."

"I'll find him myself," said Sherlock but before he could hang up, Mycroft continued:

"He's on his way to the Hōei-bashi bridge. Try to cut him off there."

Sherlock pressed down on the accelerator, still fairly far away from the bridge. If Moran was indeed on his way there, it was entirely possible that Sherlock would be too late. The setting sun behind him provided a clear view of the road ahead, and while there were several other cars on the road, Sherlock was able to weave in between them easily. At one point a police car did turn on its sirens to pursue Sherlock, but after thirty seconds the sirens cut off and Sherlock was allowed to continue in peace.

Sherlock saw the black unmarked car, driving at an accelerated but still acceptable pace, once the bridge was in sight. The Toyota Camry was not equipped to handle a high speed chase but Sherlock pushed the speedometer as far as it would go in an effort to close in on Moran.

Moran saw Sherlock coming and his car leapt forward. With the bridge closing in, Sherlock continued forward as fast as the car would allow him to go and, just before the ground underneath them gave way to the river and they crossed onto the bridge, the Camry clipped the bumper of Moran's black sedan, causing Moran's car to spin into the corner of the bridge. Sherlock slammed his foot down on the brake before he could collide further with Moran's spinning vehicle and stopped in the center of the road halfway over the bridge. He pulled John's gun out of his pocket and threw open the door, headed directly for Moran's vehicle, which was squashed against the inside of the bridge. All of the doors remained closed and there was no one in sight.

"Moran!" Sherlock yelled as he approached. "Come out here and face me!"

Sherlock stopped four meters from the car, the gun outstretched in his right hand only; Sherlock's left shoulder was throbbing to his accelerated heartbeat and he could feel his entire arm shaking. It was entirely possible that Moran could have either died or been knocked unconscious by the force of his car hitting the side of the bridge, but the driver's side door opened and Moran stepped out, a gash in his forehead spilling blood all over his face.

"Ah, you've got blood on your face too," said Moran, raising his own gun to train it on Sherlock. "It looks like all of this is mine, though. I suppose I can't say the same for you."

"Who is Moriarty?" Sherlock asked. There was no time for the game anymore. There was a final piece of the puzzle that needed to be identified, and Sherlock needed that information before he could think about John and the several potential outcomes he faced while in surgery. Sherlock did not think of any of them; Moran and his smug smile and sharp suit coated in blood was Sherlock's only focus now.

"You will never find him," said Moran. "Moriarty is a whisper in the wind. Moriarty is an idea that can never be forgotten."

"But I'm sure you know who he is," said Sherlock and took a step closer, "and you had Mary kill Renee just because she told me his name. That means he can be found. She would still be alive if she didn't have information that would ultimately lead me to him."

"Renee was operating a business that was infiltrated by a biomedical engineer and his idiot lover who can't even be called a doctor anymore. She needed to be liquidated."

"But you didn't liquidate her until after she told you what she had told me this morning," said Sherlock. "That's hardly a coincidence. She knew something. It doesn't matter. I have you, and you know much more than Renee ever would. You will be captured, you will be tortured, and you will tell us everything we need to know."

"That's where you're wrong," said Moran, who began to walk closer to Sherlock, his gun still outstretched, until he was at the side of the bridge and away from his car. "Moriarty is a man who can never die, but you and I – we are different. You don't have me, Sherlock, and you never will."

Sherlock knew what he was going to do before he did it. Sherlock bolted forward but the distance between them was still too great. Moran jumped the side of the bridge, stepped to the ledge, and pulled the trigger at his own temple. Sherlock reached the side just in time to see Moran's body fall all the way down past the autumn colored trees and the brown rock before it splashed into the river and was no more.


	18. Epilogue

Sherlock held John closely to his side as they stood in front of the grave. John was mostly able to walk on his own but still needed assistance standing for long periods, so Sherlock had absolutely no problem using his own body strength to keep John upright. Sherlock traced his fingers back and forth over the fabric of John's coat, trying to provide the comfort that Sherlock was not entire sure John needed in this situation. If he had learned anything since John's brush with death, too much comfort was better than not enough.

"I didn't even know her name," said John as he looked at the stone in front of him that simply read MARY WATSON. "She died and I buried her but I didn't even know her real name."

Sherlock remained silent and continued to brush his fingers over John's arm. John lifted his head from its resting place against Sherlock's chest and looked up at him. Sherlock looked down into deep blue eyes and tried not to smile; they were in a cemetery after all.

"You know, don't you?" John asked.

"Yes. Would you like me to tell you?"

"No," replied John and he rested his head against Sherlock again. "Mary Watson is good enough for me." Sherlock tightened his grip on John and rested his cheek against John's head, both of them looking at the bare gravestone in front of them. The funeral was small; Mary Watson had few friends. A lot of people came to support John, but the support was not necessary. Sherlock stayed at a safe distance until they all left, but once they had he scooped up John into his arms and did not let him go.

"I'm not entirely sure if I loved her," said John. "I needed her, or at least someone like her, to get over what happened with James. When I came home I loved her because I was supposed to, but then I met you. There was no room left to love her when I began to love you."

"I don't think I loved anything until I loved you," said Sherlock quietly, "and now I'm afraid it's going to explode out of me if I don't control it."

"Don't," said John. "Let's not end up like Mycroft and Greg. There's room for me and room for the work."

"That's because you are very small," said Sherlock, and he wrapped up John inside of his coat and placed his chin on top of John's head. John began to laugh, which quickly turned into pain.

"Ow, ow, don't make me laugh," said John. Sherlock kissed the top of his head.

"Let's get you home," said Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson had insisted on a reception after the funeral because she did not know that John had been the one to kill Mary, and did not know that Mary had shot John in the stomach. It was for the best that she did not know, but Sherlock and John did not advertise the reception to the funeral guests and so when they arrived back at 221B Baker Street, the only people present were Mycroft and Greg.

"And I made all this food," said Mrs. Hudson, but really she hadn't apart from two roasts and a fruit tray.

"It's for the best, Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock after he settled John into his chair. "John is too ill to cook and you know I won't. We'll have enough to feed us for the rest of the week."

"John, will you be staying here?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"Yes," said John with a nod.

"Oh, I wish I'd known! I can make up the second bedroom for you. Let me just throw some sheets in the laundry –"

"That's," said John awkwardly and he cleared his throat, "that's not necessary."

"Of course it is; the sheets on that bed are old and musty."

"What he means, Mrs. Hudson, is that we won't be needing the second bedroom," said Sherlock. "So no need to make a fuss over something we won't use." Mrs. Hudson's face paused in shock until the realization of Sherlock's statement hit her.

"Oh!" she said and a large grin crossed her face. "Well, then I'll just mind my own business. Greg, Mycroft, have you had enough to eat? I've got the kettle on downstairs. Would you like tea?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, thank you," said Greg. Mycroft nodded to her and she headed down the stairs. Greg walked over to Sherlock's chair and sat down in it to face John. Mycroft gestured Sherlock away to no doubt discuss the repercussions of what had happened in Japan. Despite the several dead people, there was still the issue of Moriarty to deal with. John watched them leave the room before he looked back at Greg.

"How are things going?" John asked Greg.

"Good," said Greg with a nod. "Mycroft and I spoke and he agreed to help me find a position in the Met. Homicide division. I think with his involvement I could end up somewhere pretty quickly. Venture is entirely too dull for me."

"Agreed," said John. He glanced over his shoulder to ensure the brothers were still gone before he lowered his voice and spoke again. "How are other things going?"

Greg began to fiddle with his ring and didn't look at John when he replied. "They're fine."

John frowned.

Greg lifted his head again. "But look at you, huh? Moving in here and everything? That's a big deal."

"Yeah, I suppose so," said John. "Apparently all I needed to do was murder my wife." Greg cocked an awkward smile.

"I honestly think all you needed to do was almost die. It made him realize how important you are to him." Greg sat back in his chair and let go of his ring. "So what's next for you, then? Sherlock's not going to stay at Venture with Renee and Sarah out of the picture, and I know you won't be able to stand it there without him."

"I don't know," said John. "Maybe I'll just tag along on Sherlock's cases. Be the boyfriend who won't leave him alone."

"I could call you up when I need a better eye," said Greg, "which is probably going to be always."

"Well there you go," said John. "We've got a plan."

Mrs. Hudson entered the room again with her tea tray, followed closely by Sherlock and Mycroft. John locked eyes with Sherlock, who sent him a small grin, the kind that Sherlock saved for John when they were alone. Even if it were just Mrs. Hudson, Greg, and Mycroft present, it was a huge step forward.

"That we do," said Greg.


End file.
